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OF  CALIFORNIA 

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THE  ETHEL  PARK  RICHARDSON 
AMERICAN  FOLKLORE  FUND 


MORE 
PENNSYLVANIA  MOUNTAIN  STORIES 


OLE  BULL'S  CASTLE 

From  the  painting  bu  C.  H.  Shea,er 


Jlennsirliranra 


"Ye  who  love  a  nation's  legends. 
Love  the  ballads  of  a  people. 
That  like  voices  from  afar  off 
Call  to  us  to  pause  and  listen." 

— Longfellow 


HENRY  W.  SHOEMAKER 

Author  of  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 
Pennsylvania  Mountain  Verses,  Etc. 


1912 


COPYRIGHTED 


Published  by  The  Bright  Printing  Company 
Reading,  Pennsylvania 


EXPLANATORY  PREFACE 

T  of  the  readers  of  "Pennsyl- 
vania Mountain  Stories"  and  its 
predecessor,  "Wild  Life  in  West- 
ern Pennsylvania,"  were  aware  of 
the  purpose  and  origin  of  the  legends, 
but,  for  the  benefit  of  the  readers  of 
this  book  who  have  not  seen  the  earlier 
volumes,  the  author  takes  this  opportunity 
for  explanation.  In  the  first  place,  having 
been  born  and  educated  in  a  great  city,  his 
liveliest  sensations  and  observations  were 
naturally  aroused  by  visits  which  began  at 
an  early  age  to  the  mountains  of  Central 
Pennsylvania.  As  it  is  said  that  country 
boys  make  the  most  eager  reporters  for  city 
newspapers,  all  the  scenes  being  so  new  to 
them,  in  the  same  way  it  fell  to  the  lot  of  the 
city-bred  author  to  become  a  chronicler  of 
Pennsylvania  Mountain  Legends.  Realizing 
from  the  first  that  he  was  not  a  literary  artist, 
and  following  occupations  which  made  his 
visits  to  the  mountains  few  and  far  between, 
he  would  gladly  have  relinquished  the  re- 


876405 


Explanatory  Preface 


searches  to  a  more  worthy  pen,  but  as  none 
appeared  and  the  work,  when  he  was  able  to 
get  at  it,  appealed  to  him,  he  decided,  using 
the  words  of  a  distinguished  writer,  "To 
follow  the  furrow  to  the  end."  In  his  pre- 
face to  "Wild  Life  in  Western  Pennsylvania," 
a  book  with  a  misleading  title,  as  it  related 
to  the  traditions  and  people  and  not  the  "wild 
life"  which  generally  means  animals  and 
birds,  of  that  region,  he  endeavored  to  ex- 
plain the  causes  which  led  up  to  the  publi- 
cation of  the  book.  When  about  ten  years 
old,  he  began  strolls  through  the  woods  with 
the  late  John  Q.  Dyce,  a  lover  of  nature,  much 
on  the  type  of  Thoreau.  From  him  he  first 
learned  the  names  of  the  trees,  plants,  flowers, 
and  birds,  and  later  it  was  the  old  natural- 
ist's delight  to  recount  stories  of  the  long  ago 
when  Central  Pennsylvania  was  being  first 
opened  to  civilization.  A  great  many  of 
these  tales  he  later  found  in  the  pages  of 
J.  F.  Meginness's  "Otzinachson"  and  works 
of  similar  nature.  But  there  were  others 
which  did  not  appear  in  the  "Otzinachson," 
Day's  "Historical  Collections,"  nor  "The 


Explanatory  Preface 


History  of  the  Five  Counties."  These  related 
to  the  Supernatural  Element  of  pioneer  life 
and,  from  the  number  of  them,  the  author 
began  to  feel  that  he  had  opened  up  a  verit- 
able treasure  house.  About  the  same  time 
an  aged  Indian  came  to  McElhattan,  the 
beautiful  mountain  retreat  where  the  author 
spent  many  of  his  boyhood  days.  This  old 
man  claimed  that  he  had  once  lived  at  Mc- 
Elhattan, but  most  probably  meant  Nichols's 
Run  across  the  river,  where  the  Indians  ling- 
ered for  many  years.  The  aged  redman  re- 
counted to  him  the  "Legend  of  Penn's  Cave" 
and  it  made  a  deeper  impression  than  any  of 
the  other  stories  he  had  heard. 

From  that  time  on  new  legends  came  to 
his  notice,  but  it  was  some  years  afterwards, 
in  1903,  when  he  attempted  to  transfer  the 
first  one,  "The  Legend  of  Penn's  Cave,"  to 
paper.  He  enjoyed  the  work  so  much  that 
he  followed  it  by  writing  a  dozen  more  that 
had  been  running  in  his  mind  "year  in  and 
year  out."  He  had  the  collection  published 
in  a  small  book  which  was  generously  noticed 
by  the  press  of  Central  Pennsylvania.  Then 


Explanatory  Preface 

four  years  passed,  during  which  time  he 
heard  more  "mountain  stories."     In  1907  a 
number  of  these  were  brought  out  in  a  larger 
book  entitled  "Pennsylvania  Mountain 
Stories."     It  received  wider  newspaper  no- 
tices and  several  editions  were  issued.    In 
the  preface  of  the  earlier  book  and  also  in 
the  later  one,  the  author  explained  the  na- 
ture of  the  contents,  trying  to  impress  the 
fact  that  they  were  not  imaginary  tales,  but 
had  a  sound  basis  of  historical  fact ;  that  all 
of  the  characters  had  actually  existed;  in 
short,  that  the  stories  were  true  up  to  the 
part  where  they  touched  upon  the  "super- 
natural," but  even  that  to  some  is  debatable 
ground.     Those  who  read  the  introductions 
understood  the  meaning  of  the  books,  and 
as  such  they  filled  a  certain  place,  being  the 
first  known  attempt  to  preserve  the  "Folk- 
Lore"  of  Central  Pennsylvania,  Meginness 
and  his  contemporaries,  and  the  Archives  at 
Harrisburg,  having  about  said  the  last  word 
on  the  historical  part.    In  these  books  of 
mountain  legends,  the  author  has  endeavored 
to  print  only  such  stories  as  found  no  place 


Explanatory  Preface 


nor  would  find  a  place  in  volumes  of  Central 
Pennsylvania  history.  There  is  one  excep- 
tion in  the  present  volume.  In  the  story 
called  "Vindication  of  Frederick  Stump,"  a 
well-known  individual  is  given  considerable 
space,  but  here  it  is  to  present  a  new  version 
of  the  crime  for  which  he  was  blackened,  and 
most  probably  unjustly,  in  the  pages  of  ac- 
cepted history.  The  late  Judge  D.  C.  Hen- 
ning  of  Pottsville,  in  his  magnificent  tribute 
to  the  Schuylkill  Valley,  "Tales  of  the  Blue 
Mountains,"  stated  that  the  ground-work  of 
every  one  of  his  stories  could  be  verified  in 
the  State  Archives.  The  author  of  "More 
Mountain  Stories"  has  adopted  a  different 
method,  going  into  the  "by-ways"  after 
stories  which  were  practically  forgotten  or 
too  filled  with  the  "witch-craft  element"  to 
be  included  in  the  records  of  a  State.  At 
the  same  time,  many  of  the  characters  in  his 
stories  were  well  known  in  their  day,  and 
were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  it  might  give 
offense  to  their  descendants  through  their 
connection  with  "spooks,"  he  would  have 
strictly  adhered  to  their  correct  names.  This 


Explanatory  Preface 


is  especially  the  case  with  the  stories  which 
happened  only  a  few  years  ago,  where  practi- 
cally all  of  the  chief  actors  are  living.     But 
one  thing  is  certain,  it  shows  that  legends 
are  still  being  created  in  this  "empty  day," 
especially   those   where   shades   of   the   de- 
parted are  figuring.     The  great  value  of  leg- 
ends is  that  they  give  to  each  mountain, 
valley,  rock,  lake  or  waterfall  mentioned  a 
more  intimate  and  lasting  charm.  "Here  such 
and  such  a  thing  happened"  is  a  happy  sup- 
plement for  "Oh,  what  a  beautiful  sight." 
We  doubt  not  that  Lewis's  Lake  would  be  al- 
ways as  popular  without  a  legend,  but  with 
one  it  grows  in  our  interest.     We  all  know 
that  the  Scotch  Highlands,  the  Irish  Lakes, 
the  Rhine  Country  and  the  old  castles  in 
Italy  are  visited  annually  by  millions  of  peo- 
ple as  much  on  account  of  the  legends  con- 
nected with  them  as  for  their  natural  at- 
tractions.    Of  course,  with  these  places  some 
of  the  greatest  literary  giants  who  ever  lived 
gave  their  best  efforts  to  invest  them  with 
the  charm  of  romance.     The  Pennsylvania 
mountain  country  lacks  this  as  yet,  but  per- 


Explanatory  Preface 


haps  some  of  the  most  fascinating  regions  of 
the  old  world  were  first  taken  in  hand  by  un- 
skilled writers  and  later  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  the  geniuses  who  immortalized  them. 
The  author  feels  positive  that  the  Pennsyl- 
vania Mountains  are  a  field  rich  in  literary 
material  that  will  sooner  or  later  be  "discov- 
ered." Whether  this  happens  in  the  next 
few  years  or  not  for  a  quarter  of  a  century 
is  not  material  except  the  loss  it  affords  to 
the  present  generation  of  readers.  As  ex- 
plained above,  new  legends  are  in  the  making 
every  day,  so  the  "treasure  house"  can  never 
be  exhausted.  The  work  of  collecting  moun- 
tain legends  is  most  delightful,  entailing  as 
it  does  trips  afoot,  on  horseback  or  in  "livery 
rigs"  through  a  country  that  is  most  varied 
in  its  scenery  and  at  all  times  grandly  im- 
pressive. All  the  types  needed  by  novelists 
or  short  story  writers  have  been  met  with, 
— witches,  outlaws,  lumbermen,  sang-diggers, 
bar-maids,  deerslayers  and  travelling  preach- 
ers. The  author  has  found  them  all  equally 
attractive  and  most  of  them,  when  friendly 
relations  were  established,  had  some  quaint 


Explanatory  Preface 


legend  or  anecdote  to  repeat.  Although,  as 
noted  previously,  the  living  characters  and 
those  characters  whose  descendants  are  any- 
way prominent  have  had  to  appear  in  the 
volumes  of  "Mountain  Stories"  with  altered 
names.  Yet  in  many  instances,  with  regard 
to  places  and  localities,  the  names  are  un- 
changed, so  that  readers  desirous  of  taking 
outings  into  the  splendid  Highlands  where 
the  scenes  of  the  stories  were  laid  can  do  so 
without  mystification.  Lock  Haven  can  be 
taken  as  a  hub ;  follow  a  line  in  any  direction 
and  you  will  meet  with  the  scenes  of  these 
stories  and  perhaps  learn  some  better  ones 
yourselves.  It  has  been  the  author's  effort 
to  transcribe  the  stories,  except  for  the 
changing  of  names,  exactly  as  he  heard  them, 
but  sometimes  this  has  been  at  the  cost  of  a 
happy  or  dramatic  ending.  There  were  some 
sources  of  information  that  were  far  more 
interesting  than  the  information  itself.  We 
have  already  mentioned  the  late  John  Q. 
Dyce  and  how  he  cultivated  our  love  of 
wandering  through  the  mountains  and  for- 
ests, and  the  old  Indian  who  revisited  the 


Explanatory  Preface 


scenes  of  his  youth  and  stopped  long  enough 
to  impart  a  dying  tradition.  And  there  were 
others  equally  well-posted  and  companion- 
able. The  late  Jacob  Quiggle,  of  blessed 
memory,  who  passed  away  on  his  ninetieth 
birthday  on  October  17th,  last,  was  a  link 
binding  the  present  to  the  past.  As  a  boy  he 
recalled  the  many  visits  to  his  father's  house 
of  the  noted  Indian  killer,  Peter  Pentz,  and 
how  this  huge  frontiersman,  with  his  shock 
of  stiff  red  hair  and  big,  eloquent  mouth, 
would  gather  the  boys  about  him  at  the  fire- 
side on  winter  evenings  regaling  them  for 
hours  with  his  exploits.  The  late  Seth  Nel- 
son was  another  survival  of  the  latter  pion- 
eer days.  Dying  in  1902  at  the  age  of  ninety- 
three  years,  he  was  a  day  or  so  older  than 
Gladstone;  he  had  many  and  varied  experi- 
ences in  the  wilderness  of  the  Sinnemahon- 
ing.  He  used  to  say  that  he  killed  one  hun- 
dred elk  and  a  thousand  deer  in  Southern 
New  York  State  and  Northern  Pennsylvania, 
and  wolves  and  catamounts  (Lynx  canaden- 
sis)  too  numerous  to  have  counted.  Jim 
Jacobson,  that  strange  half-breed  whose 


Explanatory  Preface 


father  is  said  to  have  been  one  of  Ole  Bull's 
colonists  on  Kettle  Creek,  was  a  man  worth 
going  miles  to  meet.  He  claimed  to  have 
killed  the  last  elk  in  Pennsylvania,  in  Potter 
County,  in  1875,  and  statisticians  generally 
acknowledge  his  having  killed  one  in  1867, 
while  Col.  Roosevelt  gives  him  the  credit  of 
slaying  the  "last  elk"  in  1869.  Mrs.  Anna 
Stabley,  who  died  at  McElhattan  last  year, 
aged  seventy-seven,  had  spent  all  her  spare 
time  collecting  legends  and  quaint  anecdotes 
of  the  mountain  people,  her  scrap  books  being 
filled  with  valuable  facts.  John  H.  Chatham 
of  McElhattan,  was  eminently  well  fitted 
through  birth  and  education  to  do  his  part 
towards  the  verbal  preservation  of  the  stories 
of  the  old  days  in  which  his  ancestors  played 
such  a  stirring  part.  He  has  loved  the  woods 
and  streams  with  a  sincere  devotion  and  is 
one  of  the  few  "natives"  who  delighted  in 
studying  the  old-time  traditions.  And  of 
course  there  are  others;  the  list  would  be  a 
long  one  of  those  who  brightened  the  author's 
hours  with  their  marvellous  reminiscences 
and  which  made  him  regret  that  he  had  not 


Explanatory  Preface  xv 

been  born  with  a  more  facile  pen.  But 
whether  the  stories  last  of  not,  few  persons, 
he  thinks,  have  enjoyed  a  more  delightful 
youth.  Perhaps  if  he  had  visited  the  moun- 
tains oftener  the  spell  might  have  lifted  and 
he  would  only  have  seen  the  stumps,  fire- 
swept  hillsides,  shrunken  streams,  poverty 
and  changeable  weather.  To  him  it  was  al- 
ways and  only  a  Glorious  Land  of  Romance 
where  the  sun  was  always  shining  and  the 
people  were  always  smiling.  He  has  tasted 
true  happiness  in  the  Central  Pennsylvania 
Mountains  and  in  this  humble  way  strives  to 
repay  his  debt  of  gratitude  by  recording  the 
"higher  and  finer  phases"  of  God's  chosen 
region. 

HENRY  W.  SHOEMAKER. 

New  York  City, 

December  18,  '11. 


WHEN  THE  PIGEONS  FLY 


BOUT  half  a  mile  below  the 
village  of  Loyalsockville,  a 
narrow  road  branches  off  to 
the  right  from  the  main 
highway,  and  winds  away 
among  the  hills.  If  you  fol- 
low it,  you  will  go  past  fields 
on  the  steep  hillside,  patches 
of  woods,  pasture  lots  filled 
with  golden  rod  and  mullein,  and  frequently 
cross  bridges  of  loose,  unsteady  planks  over 
the  stream,  shrunken  to  a  mere  thread,  which 
is  as  winding  as  the  lane  itself.  In  the  bottom 
where  the  creek  flows,  a  few  of  the  old-time 
buttonwoods  have  survived,  but  there  are  in- 
numerable stumps  of  white  pine,  hemlock, 
oak  and  beech,  which  attest  to  the  havoc  of 
the  lumbermen  in  this  secluded  hollow  during 
the  past  twenty  years.  After  several  miles 
the  road  attains  a  level  stretch  of  high 
ground,  where  through  the  recent  slashings 

17 


18  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

views  of  the  highest  point  of  the  North  moun- 
tains are  disclosed. 

Fields  of  not  very  great  width  are  on  both 
sides  of  the  road,  and  back  of  them  uneven, 
and  sadly  mutilated  woodlands.  Several 
browned  piles  of  sawdust  tell  of  the  presence 
in  past  years  of  the  "portable"  saw  mills. 
After  a  quarter  of  a  mile  the  woods  close  in 
to  the  road,  but  just  before  reaching  there, 
a  little  cottage  can  be  seen  through  a  clump 
of  half-dead  apple  trees.  Across  the  road 
from  this  cottage,  in  an  abandoned  field,  and 
on  the  edge  of  the  woods,  a  very  strange-look- 
ing structure  is  standing.  Made  out  of  poles 
and  boughs,  it  is  different  from  anything  we 
have  seen  on  our  travels.  The  genial,  middle- 
aged  driver  winks  his  shrewd,  dark  eyes,  and 
points  to  it  with  his  whip:  "Say,  that's  a 
bough  house  for  trapping  wild  pigeons;  did 
you  ever  see  one  before?" 

Its  spick  and  span  appearance  led  us  to  in- 
quire if  there  could  possibly  be  any  pigeons 
in  the  neighborhood,  especially  since  one  of 
our  party  had  become  a  member  of  the  com- 
mittee which  was  vainly  trying  to  rediscover 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  19 

them.  "There  haven't  been  pigeons  in  this 
county  in  twenty  years,"  replied  the  driver, 
"but  there  is  a  story  back  of  that  bough  house, 
and  why  it  is  repaired  every  year."  He  pulled 
his  long-tailed  bay  horses  down  to  a  walk, 
and,  leaning  over  the  back  of  the  cushioned 
seat  of  the  surrey,  commenced  his  bit  of  local 
history. 

"In  1876,  the  year  of  the  Philadelphia  Cen- 
tennial, that  house  we  have  just  passed  was 
occupied  by  a  soldier's  widow,  a  Mrs.  Mohn. 
Her  husband  was  killed  at  Chancellorsville. 
She  drew  a  pension.  Mrs.  Mohn  had  one 
daughter,  Clarice,  said  by  everybody  to  be 
the  prettiest  girl  in  the  Loyalsock  country. 
She  was  smart,  and  got  all  the  education  that 
was  being  given  out.  August  of  Centennial 
year,  she  was  nineteen  years  old,  and  her 
young  friends  gave  her  a  surprise  party. 

"She  was  different  in  looks  from  most  of 
the  mountain  girls,  for  she  was  a  perfect 
blonde.  She  was  taller  than  the  average, 
very  erect,  and  very  slender.  Her  hair  was 
yellow-gold,  but  her  eyebrows  and  lashes 
were  black.  Her  eyes,  when  she  opened  them 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


wide,  were  grayish  blue,  but  she  most  always 
kept  them  half  shut,  so  you  could  never  know 
what  she  was  thinking  about.  Some  called 
her  'sleepy  eye,'  but  she  was  the  most  wide- 
awake girl  in  the  township.  She  had  a  fine 
complexion,  and  very  red  lips,  which  some 
thought  were  just  a  litle  too  full.  Her  nose 
had  an  arch  to  it,  but  changed  its  mind  and 
turned  up  just  a  trifle  at  the  end.  Although 
she  made  her  own  clothes,  she  always  looked 
well-dressed,  and  her  mother  had  planned  to 
send  her  to  Williamsport  to  make  a  milliner 
or  dressmaker  out  of  her. 

"All  the  boys  were  crazy  about  her,  but 
still  she  was  popular  with  the  girls.  This 
was  a  great  pigeon  country,  and  the  birds 
were  slaughtered  by  the  tens  of  thousands. 
By  '76  they  were  pretty  well  driven  out  of 
their  nesting  grounds  in  the  North  moun- 
tains, but  they  flew  north  in  the  spring  and 
south  in  the  fall  in  flocks  that  actually  dark- 
ened the  sun.  Quite  a  few  hunters  from  a 
distance  came  here  to  enjoy  the  sport,  espe- 
cially in  the  fall.  Some  boarded  in  lumber 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  21 

camps,  but  others  preferred  to  get  with  pri- 
vate families. 

"The  Widow  Mohn  always  entertained  a 
few  of  these  city  hunters  every  year,  but  in 
Centennial  year  she  was  only  able  to  get  one. 
This  fellow  was  from  Baltimore,  and  if  I  ever 
heard  his  name,  have  clean  forgotten  it.  His 
name  wasn't  mentioned  much,  and  the  old 
postmaster  who  handled  letters  addressed  to 
him,  has  been  dead  for  twenty-five  years.  The 
Baltimore  hunter  was  a  good  looking  young 
chap,  full  of  life  and  energy,  pleasant  man- 
nered and  liberal.  He  came  up  here  for  deer 
and  pheasants,  but  an  enormous  flight  of 
pigeons  turned  his  attention  to  them  and  he 
said  he  had  never  had  such  good  sport  in  his 
life. 

"He  fell  in  with  two  other  hunters — old 
Abe  DeTemple  and  his  son  Nick — and  found 
board  with  Mrs.  Mohn.  In  the  buckwheat 
field  across  from  the  widow's  home  was  a 
great  place  for  pigeons,  and  already  an  old 
bough  house  was  there,  but  the  DeTemples 
entirely  rebuilt  it.  Pigeons  in  immense  num- 
bers were  captured,  and  Abe  and  young  Nick 


22  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

were  kept  busy  shipping  strings  of  dead  birds 
or  crates  of  live  ones  to  the  young  hunter's 
friends  in  Baltimore,  Philadelphia,  New  York 
and  Washington.  Every  day  he  would  say 
he'd  start  tomorrow  on  a  deer  hunt,  but  the 
reappearance  of  pigeons  would  keep  his  at- 
tention fastened. 

"Pretty  soon  everybody  began  to  notice 
it  wasn't  the  pigeons  that  interested  him  so 
much,  but  Clarice.  She  was  always  out  at 
the  bough  house,  helping  him  to  crate  the 
birds,  was  eternally  cleaning  his  guns,  and 
in  the  evenings  we  always  saw  them  walking 
together  along  the  road  through  the  woods. 
There  was  an  old  box-swing  between  two 
shellbarks  in  the  yard,  and  they  were  always 
swinging  in  it  just  before  supper  time. 
When  we  passed  by  at  night  we  could  see  a 
light  in  the  sitting  room  window,  a  thing  that 
never  occurred  before  the  young  hunter  put 
in  his  appearance. 

"The  day  before  he  left  they  went  for  a 
long  walk  in  the  woods  and  were  gone  all  day. 
She  went  along,  she  'had  to  do  some  shop- 
ping' she  said,  when  he  went  to  Williamsport 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  23 

to  take  the  train,  and  Ed.  Lovett  who  drove 
them  said  they  both  seemed  to  feel  very  badly 
when  they  parted.  His  last  words  to  her 
were :  Til  be  back  again  next  fall,  when  the 
pigeons  fly.'  'Try  and  make  it  sooner/  she 
called  to  him,  as  he  got  on  the  car,  and  then 
they  both  waved  good-bye.  He  stood  on  the 
back  platform  until  the  station  was  lost  to 
sight  by  the  curve  below  the  Seminary. 

"We  young  fellows  who  worked  on  the 
neighboring  saw  mills,  and  all  admired  Clar- 
ice, could  see  she  was  considerably  cast  down 
by  the  parting,  and  tried  to  cheer  her  up  as 
best  we  could.  None  of  us  succeeded  very 
well,  excepting  perhaps  Nick  DeTemple.  He 
had  been  around  the  'Baltimore  hunter/ as  we 
called  him,  and  knew  his  ways,  and  she  liked 
to  talk  about  him  and  lay  plans  for  his  visit 
the  following  autumn. 

"This  threw  Nick  with  her  a  good  deal, 
and  some  of  the  more  jealous  boys  did  a  little 
talking,  but  every  day  she  went  to  the  post- 
office  and  got  a  letter  from  Baltimore,  and 
mailed  one  herself.  She  was  always  in  good 
spirits  when  the  letters  came,  so  we  con- 


24  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

eluded  that  Nick  was  only  encouraged  as  a 
reminder  of  the  absent  one.  But  Nick  was 
on  the  alert  to  take  every  advantage  of  his 
opportunity.  Though  he  wasn't  bright,  and, 
apart  from  being  well-built,  wasn't  good  look- 
ing, he  had  a  self-confidence  that  had  no  room 
in  its  composition  for  anything  but  success. 

"He  had  saved  some  money  and  occasion- 
ally hired  a  horse  and  buggy  and  took  the 
girls  riding.  At  Christmas  he  bought  him- 
self a  horse  and  a  sleigh,  which  soon  came  in 
very  handy.  A  protracted  meeting  began  at 
a  church  near  Warrensville,  and  he  invited 
Clarice  to  go  with  him.  She  had  been  par- 
ticularly moody  of  late,  and  her  mother  urged 
her  to  go,  and  become  interested  in  the  religi- 
ous entertainment.  She  did  become  inter- 
ested to  the  extent  that  the  old  postmaster 
said  she  failed  to  mail  a  letter  to  Baltimore 
for  four  successive  days,  and  when  she  did 
send  one  off  she  found  six  of  her  absent  ad- 
mirer's letters  in  the  box. 

"She  stuck  them  in  her  dress,  but  on  the 
way  up  the  hill  she  began  to  take  them  out 
and  read  them,  one  by  one.  Often  she  stopped 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  25 

short  and  stood  for  a  couple  of  minutes,  as 
if  undecided  about  something.  The  next 
thing  the  postmaster  noticed  was  that  no  let- 
ters from  Baltimore  arrived  for  three  days. 
Clarice  came  to  the  office  daily  and  looked  for 
them. 

"Then  the  letters  began  again,  but  the 
rumor  spread  that  Nick  DeTemple  and  Clar- 
ice Mohn  were  soon  to  be  married.  She  wrote 
every  few  days  to  Baltimore,  and  sometimes 
received  daily  replies,  but  the  correspondence 
was  never  regular  again.  In  April  Nick  and 
Clarice  drove  to  Williamsport,  and  came  back 
man  and  wife.  On  the  way  back  they  stopped 
at  the  postoffice.  There  were  three  letters 
for  Clarice,  and  she  borrowed  a  sheet  of 
paper  and  envelope  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Bal- 
timore. 

"She  seemed  very  happy  for  several 
months,  but  by  the  last  of  July  she  appeared 
pale  and  wretched.  Nick  had  begun  to  drink 
again,  so  the  neighbors  declared.  He  had  al- 
ways been  more  or  less  of  a  'boozer/  but  now 
that  he  had  won  the  prettiest  girl  for  miles 
around,  he  seemed  to  want  to  celebrate  his 


26  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

triumph  with  repeated  sprees.  There  was 
going  to  be  an  early  fall,  and  by  the  first  of 
September  the  maples  and  gum  trees  were 
tinted  crimson.  The  nights  assumed  the  chill- 
ness  of  late  autumn,  and  the  'Hallowe'en 
wind'  rattled  the  brittle  corn  stalks.  The  few 
remaining  crickets  had  a  note  of  sadness  in 
their  songs.  One  Saturday  night  Nick  drove 
to  Williamsport,  never  to  return.  He  got 
into  a  row  in  one  of  the  saloons  along  the 
river  front,  and  broke  a  decanter  of  whiskey 
over  the  head  of  a  big,  hulking  riverman. 

"They  carried  him  into  the  back  room  and 
laid  him  on  a  sofa,  but  he  was  dead  before 
they  could  get  medical  attendance.  Nick  said 
he  was  sorry,  and  told  the  proprietor,  whom 
he  knew  very  well,  he  would  go  straight  to 
the  police  and  surrender  himself.  He  was 
allowed  to  go,  but  whether  he  killed  himself 
in  some  lonely  spot  in  the  mountains,  or 
swung  aboard  a  freight  for  Altoona,  is  still 
an  open  question.  Clarice  heard  the  news 
next  day,  and  her  mother  said  she  had  a  hard 
time  to  keep  the  girl  from  killing  herself. 

"She  would  not  stir  out  of  the  house  al- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  27 

though  the  bright  sunshine  was  every  day 
deepening  the  tints  of  the  leaves  on  the 
maples,  gums  and  hickories.  A  few  scatter- 
ing flocks  of  wild  pigeons  were  being  ob- 
served flying  to  the  south,  and  once  about  two 
weeks  after  the  catastrophe  at  Williamsport, 
she  was  seen  on  the  back  porch,  with  her 
lovely  white  hand  shading  her  eyes,  watching 
the  flight  of  the  birds. 

"Two  or  three  days  after  this,  at  dusk, 
when  few  were  moving  on  the  roads,  she 
came  out  and  went  down  the  hill  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  postoffice.  The  old  postmaster 
said  she  mailed  a  letter  to  Baltimore.  A  few 
days  later  she  came  in  again,  and  looked  for 
a  letter,  but  none  was  there.  She  inquired 
nervously  of  the  old  man  how  often  the  mails 
were  received,  and  then  started  homeward. 
The  next  morning  a  memorable  flight  of 
pigeons  occurred,  obscuring  the  heavens  by 
their  myriad  millions. 

"Bright  and  early,  with  her  mother,  Clar- 
ice was  seen  at  work  repairing  the  bough 
house.  The  nets  were  brought  out,  and  hung 
on  the  porch  to  be  aired  and  renovated.  All 


28  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

day  long  the  impressive  flight  continued,  and 
towards  evening,  with  a  light  step,  we  had 
not  noticed  in  months,  she  started  for  the 
postoffice.  I  met  her  on  the  hill,  there  was 
color  in  her  face,  and  she  smiled  just  as  she 
did  in  the  old  days.  Her  face  was  a  study 
when  I  met  her  again  coming  back,  it  was 
dark,  but  the  stars  gave  enough  light  to  see 
the  rigid  lines  which  seemed  to  have  aged  her 
ten  years.  The  postmaster  vowed  she  did 
not  get  a  letter,  but  I  have  always  doubted  it. 
"When  I  passed  by  the  house  the  next 
afternoon  I  saw  the  doctor's  buggy  at  the 
gate.  Mrs.  Mohn  was  there  talking  to  him, 
and  she  called  to  me  in  a  hollow  voice  that 
Clarice  was  very  sick.  She  had  a  bad  fever 
or  something;  at  any  rate,  we  didn't  see  her 
for  over  a  month.  When  we  did  it  was  not 
the  Clarice  of  old.  It  was  an  aged  woman, 
literally  'there  were  silver  threads  among  the 
gold.'  Her  face  was  pale,  her  eyes  more 
closed  than  ever,  her  lips  were  no  longer  full, 
there  were  wrinkles  where  once  had  been  the 
bloom  of  youth. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  29 

"But  she  was  brave  and  went  about  her 
household  duties  as  before.  A  year  passed, 
and  the  grand  spectacle  of  the  wild  pigeons 
in  flight  occurred  again.  Clarice  and  her 
mother  were  seen  repairing  the  bough  house 
and  airing  the  nets,  which  gave  rise  to  the 
rumor  that  she  had  received  a  letter.  But  the 
birds  came  and  went,  and  the  long  winter 
followed,  but  with  spring  fewer  pigeons  were 
noticed  flying  northward. 

"That  fall  scattering  flights  took  place, 
and  Clarice  put  the  bough  house  in  perfect 
order.  The  following  year  there  were  still 
fewer  pigeons,  and  after  1881,  only  a  few 
stragglers  came  this  way.  But  even  after 
1890,  when  they  ceased  coming  altogether, 
Clarice  was  true  to  her  purpose,  and  repaired 
the  bough  house  every  autumn.  She  seldom 
went  to  the  postoffice,  except  at  this  time, 
and  people  out  of  kindness  hid  in  the  brush 
when  she  passed,  so  as  not  to  break  in  on  her 
sorrowful  thoughts.  All  night  long  a  light 
was  noticed  in  the  sitting  room  window.  Last 
spring  her  mother  died;  she  was  close  to 
seventy-five  years  old,  and  we  thought  that 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


Clarice  would  move  away,  or  at  least  let  the 
bough  house  run  down. 

"But  last  fall,  after  the  maples  and  gums 
had  assumed  their  glowing  colors,  she  went 
to  work  manfully  and  set  it  to  rights.  Even 
the  net  was  carefully  mended  and  aired,  and 
hung  for  days  on  the  wall  inside  the  porch. 
Clarice  looking  older  than  ever  was  at  the 
postoffice  twice,  and  her  solitary,  angular 
figure,  would  have  brought  tears  to  a  stone. 
She  seems  to  think  that  the  young  hunter 
from  Baltimore  will  come  back  sometime 
'when  the  pigeons  fly,'  but  his  return  is  as 
improbable  as  the  hope  that  we  will  ever  see 
again  the  Passenger  Pigeon,  noblest  and  most 
beautiful  of  all  the  birds  of  America." 


II 


THE  LAST  ELK 


T  was  a  long,  but  far  from  a 
tedious  drive  from  Sala- 
manca to  the  little  nook  in 
the  hills  where  old  Jim 
Jacobson  lived.  Old  man 
Frank,  who  ran  the  leading 
livery  in  the  town,  with  his 
long  white  beard  and  gen- 
eral manner  that  suggested 
a  Mormon  prophet,  put  us  in  the  hands  of  Bill 
Thorpe,  a  big,  broad-faced  Irishman,  and  our 
team  was  a  pair  of  little  bay  mustangs,  quick 
as  lightning  and  always  wanting  to  run  off. 
The  morning  was  beautiful,  and  the  roads 
good,  so  we  were  in  the  Reservation  before 
long,  whirling  along  past  the  wretched  huts 
of  the  Indians,  which  reminded  us  forcibly 
of  the  hovels  of  the  peasants  in  Ireland.  Oc- 
casionally we  met  the  flat-faced  stoical  half- 
breeds,  with  their  slow  walk,  and  wooden 


32  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

rigidity  of  hands  and  bodies.  In  a  few  bog 
ponds  groups  of  Indians,  men  and  children, 
were  fishing  for  carp,  and  as  the  day  ad- 
vanced, some  stalwart  "braves"  could  be  seen 
resting  under  the  trees  while  their  wives  hoed 
garden.  There  was  an  utter  absence  of  bird 
life,  and  not  a  single  tree  of  noticeable  size, 
as  these  poor  survivors  of  the  greatness  of 
the  Senecas  to  save  themselves  from  going 
away  to  work  destroyed  everything  that  na- 
ture put  within  reach  of  them.  Bill  Thorpe 
seemed  to  feel  happy  in  the  reservation;  it 
took  him  back,  he  said,  to  the  days  when  he 
used  to  be  in  the  West. 

That  was  in  1880,  there  were  still  buffaloes 
arid  wild  Indians  in  Western  Kansas.  Once 
he  saw  a  herd  of  five  hundred  buffaloes  cross- 
ing a  stream.  Another  time  he  saw  cowboys 
and  Indians  fighting  over  a  herd  of  several 
hundred  buffaloes;  all  the  buffaloes  were 
killed,  but  six  Indians  and  one  cowboy  also 
fell  in  the  encounter.  There  must  be  a  few 
wild  buffaloes  in  the  West  yet,  there  is  such 
a  big  country  for  them,  to  range  over,  he 
continued.  We  reminded  him  that  1880  was 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  33 

more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  in  the  past ; 
it  would  be  delightful  if  there  were  wild  buf- 
faloes; we  had  been  West  ourselves  within 
the  past  few  years,  all  was  inclosed  in  barb- 
wire,  and  the  last  wild  bison  were  killed  by 
taxidermists  in  Lost  Park,  Colorado,  about 
1900.  "Too  bad,"  said  Bill,  "I  was  never 
able  to  get  west  of  Cleveland  since  1883."  In 
the  distance  we  could  see  the  long  white 
buildings  of  the  Quaker  school  for  Indians, 
at  Tunesassa.  Here  philathropic  Philadel- 
phia "Friends"  over  a  century  ago  bought 
a  large  tract  of  land  on  the  edge  of  the  reser- 
vation, and  sent  teachers  out  to  civilize  and 
instruct  the  aborigines.  After  all  these  years 
the  only  appreciable  result  is  that  there  are 
fewer  Indians,  disease  took  a  stronger  grip 
on  those  who  took  most  kindly  to  the  methods 
of  the  civilizers.  All  this  school  did  was  to 
accelerate  the  effort  of  nature  to  decimate 
the  Redmen  to  make  room  for  the  whites. 
Once  the  school  authorities  had  some  very 
magnificent  white  pine  timber  on  the  tract, 
but  now  all  was  gone  except  one  patch  which 
stood  back  of  the  school  buildings,  and  a  port- 


34  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

able  sawmill,  manned  by  sweating,  dirty  half- 
breeds,  who  stopped  work  as  we  passed,  was 
sending  it  the  way  of  all  noble  pine  trees  in 
these  evil  days. 

Quite  a  bunch  of  the  big  trees  were  still 
standing,  their  great,  slight,  graceful  heights, 
sending  towards  the  blue  heavens  a  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  of  perpendicular  grandeur.  A 
slight  breeze  was  stirring  in  the  feathery 
needles  in  their  topmost  boughs  and  they 
seemed  to  be  whispering  a  prayer  of  fare- 
well to  the  beautiful  world  they  would  soon 
have  to  quit  so  ignominiously.  Back  of  the 
school  there  runs  a  railroad,  which  carries 
the  logs  from  a  vast  body  of  timber  land 
farther  in  the  hills.  These  hills,  at  least 
those  seen  from  the  banks  of  the  Allegheny 
river,  are  as  bare  and  barren  and  sombre  as 
the  treeless  skyline  of  the  Nile  Valley.  Our 
way  led  up  the  same  hollow  through  which 
the  log  road  ran,  but  the  tracks  were  across 
a  little  trout  stream  from  us,  which  sparkled 
in  the  sunshine  save  where  it  disappeared 
below  the  great  decaying  logs  of  pine  and 
hemlock  which  had  been  cut  and  thrown  into 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  35 

the  stream  to  rot  and  symbolize  man's  reck- 
less waste  of  the  bountiful  gifts  of  nature  in 
America.  A  couple  of  mourning  doves  flew 
out  of  a  hazel  thicket,  and  we  began  to  talk 
of  the  awful  destruction  of  the  Passenger 
Pigeons  but  a  few  years  before.  Buffaloes, 
timber,  pigeons,  soil,  all  have  been  wiped 
out  that  men  might  fancy  they  had  gotten 
the  last  cent  out  of  existence.  Three  miles 
up  the  hollow,  we  left  the  main  road,  and 
turned  to  the  left  into  a  narrower,  and 
stonier  lane.  At  the  X  road  were  several 
dilapidated  shanties,  but  evidently  inhabited. 
"These  fellows,"  said  Bill,  "have  gotten  a  new 
lease  of  life  since  this  big  lumbering  opera- 
tion started.  Years  ago  they  lived  by  work- 
ing in  the  woods  and  hunting  in  Pennsyl- 
vania, but  until  this  job  opened  they  hadn't 
been  away  much  in  several  years."  As  our 
time  was  limited  we  fed  our  horses  at  the 
roadside  near  a  little  creek,  and  even  at  that 
the  afternoon  was  well  advanceed,  and  the 
air  decidedly  cool  when  Bill,  pointing  with 
his  whip  at  a  little  red  house  in  a  hollow 
ahead  of  us,  said:  "There's  where  old  Jim 


36  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

Jacobson  hangs  out."  We  wanted  to  know 
how  old  a  man  he  was  and  Bill  replied,  "He's 
old  for  a  half-breed,  about  60,  maybe  not  that, 
but  those  fellows  age  quickly."  When  we 
drew  near  the  place,  we  saw  a  weazened  old 
man,  whose  pale  hair  was  turning  white,  sit- 
ting on  a  log,  breathing  heavily.  "That's 
Jim,"  said  Thorpe.  The  old  fellow  had  just 
cut  down  a  large  white  pine  which  stood  by 
the  road  near  the  far  end  of  his  garden.  The 
old  impulse  was  irresistible ;  he  had  at  length 
cut  down  the  only  good-sized  tree  to  be  seen 
for  miles.  "Pretty  busy  for  an  old  man," 
called  Thorpe  cheerily,  as  he  stopped  his 
horses  in  front  of  the  aged  half-breed.  "Yes, 
sir,"  he  smiled,  "the  darned  old  tree  has  been 
shadin'  th'  garden  for  years,  and  I  just  up 
and  downed  it."  We  were  introduced  to  the 
old  chap,  Bill  adding  that  we  "had  come  a 
good  many  miles  to  meet  the  hunter  who  had 
killed  the  last  elk  in  Pennsylvania."  Jacob- 
son  seemed  to  like  this,  and  he  pulled  his  corn 
cob  pipe  out  of  his  vest-pocket,  and  began 
to  fix  it  for  a  smoke.  "Put  your  horses  in 
the  barn  'cross  th'  road,  an'  I'll  have  to  tell 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  37 

you  all  about  it."  We  all  went  to  the  barn, 
the  old  Indian  following,  and  it  was  on  the 
door  step  of  the  horse  stable  where  we  heard 
the  story  of  the  passing  of  the  elk  in  the 
Keystone  State.  "I  have  killed  twelve  elk  in 
Pennsylvania,"  the  old  man  began. 

It  may  have  been  against  the  law,  or  any- 
how against  popular  opinion,  so  we  didn't 
talk  much  at  the  time  and  the  only  ones  that 
got  into  history  are  the  last  two  or  three  that 
were  landed.  "When  did  you  kill  the  first 
one?"  we  inquired.  "I  killed  my  first  elk  in 
1863,  when  I  was  14  years  old,"  replied  the 
old  fellow  proudly.  "I  was  born  in  Penn- 
sylvania ;  my  father  was  one  of  the  Norwegi- 
ans that  came  to  Potter  county  with  Ole  Bull, 
and  my  mother  was  a  daughter  of  Sam  Jim- 
merson,  a  chief  of  the  Senecas.  My  full  name 
is  Samuel  Jimmerson  Jacobson.  Around  the 
time  of  the  war  the  elks  began  to  get  real 
scarce,  and  all  us  hunters  decided  to  get  all 
we  could,  as  they  wouldn't  last  long.  The  lead- 
ing people  in  Lock  Haven,  Clearfield,  and 
Coudersport  were  against  this  killing,  but 
there  were  no  railroads  and  no  game  ward- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


ens,  so  we  did  just  as  we  chose,  and  got  our 
elks.  We  always  found  them  in  swamps,  and 
we  surrounded  the  swamps  and  got  as  many 
as  three  and  four  out  of  some  of  them.  I  killed 
my  next  to  last  cow  in  the  Flag  Swamp,  in 
Elk  county,  in  November,  1867,  and  it  was 
noticed  in  the  papers,  and  caused  a  lot  of  talk, 
as  most  people  in  Pennsylvania,  all  except 
us  hunters,  thought  the  last  elk  in  the  state 
had  been  killed  long  before.  I  knew  at  the 
time  that  there  were  two  or  three  survivors, 
and  I  had  them  marked  to  kill  at  the  proper 
season.  Smith  Hunter,  a  raftsman,  got  ahead 
of  me  with  a  cow  which  hung  around  the 
headwaters  of  Mill  Creek,  in  Elk  county. 
That  was  in  November,  1869.  There  was  one 
elk  left  even  after  that.  It  had  headquarters 
in  the  dense  hardwoods  south  of  Roulette,  in 
Potter  county.  LeRoy  Lyman,  like  myself, 
a  half-breed  Indian,  and  a  prosperous 
farmer  at  Roulette,  wanted  to  get  the  animal 
alive  to  keep  as  a  relic,  and  offered  a  prize 
of  $75  if  it  was  brought  in  alive.  In  the 
winter  of  1871-72,  I  was  working  in  a  big 
job  half-way  up  Youngwoman's  Creek,  and  I 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  39 

heard  the  offer  of  Lyman's,  whom  I  knew 
very  well.  When  I  knocked  off  in  the  spring,  I 
footed  it  over  the  mountains  to  his  home,  and 
offered  to  do  the  trick  for  him.  He  toid  me 
where  the  elk  hung  out,  and  I  started  on  the 
trail. 

"Within  a  day  I  got  a  sight  of  the  elk,  and 
it  was  the  prettiest  looking  animal  I  ever 
saw.  It  was  a  bull,  with  full  set  of  horns, 
and  the  prettiest  hide  you  could  imagine.  It 
was  a  browner  color  than  any  I  had  seen  be- 
fore, although  Pennsylvania  elks  were  much 
darker  than  the  elks  in  the  West.  I  worked 
on  all  kinds  of  plans  to  trap  and  coiner  him 
so  I  could  lasso  him,  but  others  out  after  the 
reward  used  dogs  and  he  travelled  further 
and  further  from  his  old  hiding  place.  My 
money  ran  out  and  Lyman  kept  me  going 
with  cash  and  supplies  and  I  camped  in  the 
woods  until  November.  My  hunt  had  some 
success,  for  I  killed  five  deer,  three  cata- 
mounts, two  wild  cats  and  a  wolf.  But  I 
didn't  get  the  elk,  and  finally  Lyman  said  he 
wouldn't  stake  me  any  longer. 


40  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

"I  had  to  go  back  to  the  woods,  and  worked 
all  winter  on  the  Sinnemahoning.  In  the 
spring  when  our  logs  were  floated  the  old 
fever  was  back  on  me  and  I  tramped  over  to 
see  Lyman  again.  He  said  the  elk  was  back 
in  its  old  haunts  among  the  swamp  maples 
or  elkwood  (Acer  Pennsylvanicum) ,  which 
grew  about  the  ravines  below  his  farm. 
Everybody  had  been  working  cutting  saw- 
logs  that  winter,  so  the  animal  had  ventured 
back.  I  repeated  my  old  games,  but  the  elk 
was  too  slick.  Pretty  soon  I  learned  he  had 
another  follower  besides  myself,  a  big  brown 
wolf,  and  it  was  a  case  of  which  would  get 
him  first,  the  wolf  or  me. 

"My  first  idea  was  to  kill  the  wolf,  but  he 
was  craftier  than  the  elk.  I  chased  the  elk 
two  months  steadily  and  one  morning  in  July 
I  was  coming  back  to  my  shack  after  an  all 
night  chase,  when  I  came  face  to  face  with 
him.  He  was  looking  poorly,  and  as  we  eyed 
one  another,  I  heard  the  underbrush  crack, 
and  I  saw  that  wolf  jumping  to  cover.  He 
had  been  eyeing  us  both !  I  lost  my  temper, 
and  swore  I'd  get  the  elk  before  the  wolf,  so 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  41 

I  aimed  my  gun  and  shot  the  bull  through  the 
heart.  I  got  him  to  my  camp,  and  skinned 
him  and  preserved  the  head.  Then  I  went 
to  see  Lyman  but  he  swore,  and  cursed,  and 
said  he  would  not  give  me  one  cent  for  a  dead 
elk.  I  had  wasted  six  months  of  my  time 
and  had  nothing  but  a  dead  elk  on  my  hands. 
Lyman  would  not  even  let  me  spend  the  night 
at  his  house ;  said  he  would  have  me  arrested 
if  I  didn't  clear  out  at  once.  I  had  a  little 
money,  so  I  joined  a  man  selling  lightning 
rods  who  carried  the  elk  head  and  myself  to 
Germania  in  his  covered  wagon.  There  I  knew 
an  old  German  named  Osch,  who  sometimes 
mounted  deer  heads  and  stuffed  birds.  I  put 
the  head  with  him,  and  he  made  a  fine  job 
out  of  it.  I  got  a  good  job  in  Germania  that 
fall  driving  stage,  and  stayed  there  until  early 
in  1876,  when  I  got  the  idea  I  could  get  big 
money  by  exhibiting  the  head  of  the  last  elk 
killed  in  Pennsylvania  at  the  Centennial  ex- 
position. 

"I  had  old  Osch  box  the  head,  and,  I  started 
by  train  from  Lock  Haven  in  high  spirits. 
When  I  got  to  Philadelphia  I  could  not  find 


42  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

anybody  who  would  put  me  in  touch  with  the 
parties  at  the  head  of  the  Exposition,  so  I 
hung  around  town  until  August,  spending  my 
money,  with  the  head  stored  in  the  trunk 
room  of  my  hotel.  One  evening  I  was  walk- 
ing along  Market  street,  and  I  noticed  the 
name  "Summerson"  above  a  liquor  saloon. 
That  name  sounded  familiar,  as  I  had  known 
a  lot  of  boys  named  Summerson  in  the  lum- 
ber woods.  I  went  in  and  asked  for  the  land- 
lord. He  was  a  big  fellow,  with  a  foreign 
accent,  and  he  told  me  he  was  a  Scotchman, 
no  relation  to  my  old  friends  up  the  state. 
He  agreed  to  my  proposition  to  exhibit  the 
head  of  the  last  elk  killed  in  Pennsylvania 
over  his  bar,  and  woud  give  me  the  job  of 
cleaning  out  the  bar  room.  The  head  didn't 
make  the  hit  we  hoped,  as  most  of  the  cus- 
tomers said  they  didn't  believe  it  had  been 
killed  in  Pennsylvania. 

"I  wrote  to  LeRoy  Lyman  to  get  a  letter 
from  him  to  use  as  a  certificate,  but  he  never 
replied.  Towards  Christmas  Summerson  said 
he  would  have  to  let  me  go,  so  I  told  him  if 
he  would  give  me  a  ticket  to  Lock  Haven  I 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  43 

would  let  him  keep  the  elk  head  until  I  could 
return  him  the  money.  I  got  a  job  on  Fish 
Dam  Run,  and  I  never  felt  like  sending  the 
Scotchman  the  money  to  redeem  that  devilish 
elk's  head.  I  had  begun  to  feel  sorry  I  killed 
it,  and  the  very  sight  of  it  made  me  feel  ter- 
ribly queer."  There  was  a  pause.  Bill  Thorpe 
looked  at  his  watch;  it  was  half -past  five. 
"You'd  better  stay  for  supper,"  said  the  old 
hunter.  "I'm  all  by  myself  and  I  can't  give 
you  any  elk  meat,  but  if  you  like  ham,  I  can 
fix  you  out  with  that."  Supper  over,  we  left 
the  old  half-breed  at  the  gate,  and  after  we 
said  good-bye,  he  turned  to  re-enter  his  mis- 
erable abode,  looking  as  forlorn  and  helpless 
as  the  last  elk  in  Pennsylvania,  which  he  had 
so  relentlessly  slain. 


Ill 


THE  PASSING  OF  A  GHOST 


O  M  0  R  R  0  W,"  soliloquized 
Fred  Parmentier,  a  jobber 
in  the  Cross  Forks  region, 
as  he  sat  on  the  crumbling 
rampart  of  Ole  Bull's  castle, 
"we  will  clean  up  that 
patch  of  timber  around  the 
boiling  spring,  then,  except 
for  the  few  trees  standing 
among  the  hardwoods  on  the  top  of  the  moun- 
tain, the  job  will  be  finished." 

He  looked  over  his  shoulder  up  the  steep 
ridge  to  where  a  body  of  giant  white  hem- 
locks stood  huddled  together,  as  if  for  mutual 
protection,  in  a  narrow  gully.  Around  them 
on  all  sides  was  the  ruin  left  by  the  loggers 
and  bark-peelers,  the  thousands  of  freshly 
felled  and  peeled  trunks,  none  of  which  had 
as  yet  been  sawed  into  sixteen  or  twelve  feet 
lengths,  the  thousands  of  stumps  cut  six  feet 
high,  and  likewise  peeled. 

44 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  45 

The  last  rays  of  the  September  sun  gave 
a  flesh-pink  tint  to  logs  and  stumps,  and  a 
browner  and  more  sombre  tone  to  the  huge 
piles  of  bark  ranked  at  regular  spaces,  at  a 
distance  resembling  tiny  huts  dotting  the  hill- 
side. Logs  and  bark  exuded  a  pungent  and 
not  unattractive  odor.  Here  and  there  were 
mature  hardwoods,  sugar  maples,  beeches, 
birches  and  poplars,  with  trunks  clean  of 
limbs  for  eighty  feet,  surmounted  with  frow- 
sled,  broken  tops,  wrecked  by  the  felling  of 
the  hemlocks.  Interspersed  with  these  were 
younger  trees,  beeches  and  hemlocks  mostly, 
some  topless  and  others  bent  double  by  the 
recent  devastation. 

The  jobber's  gaze  now  rested  on  the  valley 
below,  to  the  broad  public  highway  on  the 
other  side  of  Kettle  Creek,  where  his  crew 
of  over  fifty  men,  making  a  vivid  picture  in 
their  gaily  colored  shirts  of  red,  blue  or  pur- 
ple were  wending  their  way,  in  an  irregular 
line  to  the  shanties.  Smoke  was  circling 
upwards  from  the  chimneys  of  the  kitchens, 
betokening  that  supper  would  soon  be  ready. 
A  cow-bell  was  tinkling  melodiously  from 


46  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

somewhere  among  the  water  birches  by  the 
bed  of  the  stream.  He  was  aroused  from 
his  musing  by  some  one  in  a  cheery  voice  call- 
ing out  "Good  evening,  boss,"  and  he  looked 
down  and  saw  one  of  his  men,  Joe  Markley, 
climbing  up  the  hill,  over  the  mass  of  pros- 
trate logs. 

"What  brings  you  here  at  supper  time?" 
he  called  to  him  good  naturedly. 

"Lost  my  watch  this  afternoon,"  was  Joe's 
reply.  "Why  haint  you  down  there  your- 
self?" 

"Oh,  I  was  just  figuring  out  a  few  things, 
you  know  we  finish  tomorrow ;  we're  putting 
all  the  crews  in  the  hollow  above  the  Boiling 
Spring,  and  that'll  soon  make  an  end  of  it." 

Markley  kept  on  climbing  while  he  con- 
versed with  his  boss,  and  soon  had  passed  the 
ruined  castle,  and,  crossing  the  "bench,"  was 
on  his  way  up  the  face  of  the  high  mountain. 
It  was  a  hard  climb,  and  he  was  pretty  well 
out  of  breath  when  he  came  to  the  spring, 
where  he  rested  before  starting  his  hunt  for 
the  missing  watch.  The  timber  had  been 
cut  that  day  to  the  lower  edge  of  the  spring, 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  47 

but  the  shade  of  the  tall  hemlocks  above  it 
hung  over  the  crystalline  pool  of  bubbling 
water. 

Markley  picked  up  a  tomato  can  and  took 
a  drink,  stroked  his  long  blonde  moustache, 
then  he  pulled  a  couple  of  apples  from  one  of 
his  pockets,  and  began  eating  them  in  lieu 
of  supper.  Darkness  crept  on  so  quickly, 
that  when  he  laid  his  head  back  on  the  moss 
for  a  moment's  repose  the  watch  was  for- 
gotten, and  he  was  dozing.  It  was  pitch 
dark  when  he  roused  himself,  looking  around 
as  if  surprised  at  his  surroundings.  He  did 
not  know  whether  to  spend  the  night  at  the 
spring,  or  attempt  the  perilous  climb  down 
the  mountain. 

High  on  the  summit  back  of  him  he  could 
hear  a  fox  yelping  among  the  mature  hard- 
woods. When  it  died  down  and  became  still 
again,  he  thought  he  heard  footsteps  on  the 
moss. 

Soon  he  saw  a  slender  figure  clad  in  gray 
approaching  him,  it  was  a  young  girl;  he 
marveled  how  she  could  be  here  such  a  dark 
night,  there  must  be  something  the  matter 


48  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


with  his  eyes.  In  gentle  tones  she  spoke  to 
him:  "This  is  Joe  Markley,  I  believe?" 

Joe  hesitated  a  full  minute  before  answer- 
ing, and,  then  said  simply,  "It  is." 

"This  timber  is  to  be  cut  tomorrow,"  she 
said,  "it  will  be  my  last  time  here  tonight.  I 
wanted  to  see  you  so  much." 

Joe  was  thoroughly  perplexed,  especially 
as  the  visitor  seemed  a  total  stranger  to  him. 
"I  don't  remember  you ;  why  do  you  want  to 
see  me  in  such  an  infernal  lonesome  place?" 

"Don't  you  remember  me?"  said  the  girl 
sadly,  "you  used  to  know  me  well.  I  am  Hazel 
Trego." 

"Hazel  Trego,"  echoed  Joe;  "you  can't  be, 
why  she  was  found  murdered  nine  years  ago 
this  coming  October." 

"I  am  Hazel  Trego  just  the  same,"  re- 
plied the  girl  quietly.  "At  least  the  spirtual 
part  of  her,  the  part  that  we  are  taught  goes 
to  Heaven  when  we  die." 

"Then  you  are  a  ghost?"  asked  Joe. 

"Probably  that  is  the  best  name  for  me; 
I  have  found  Heaven  seemed  further  off  since 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  49 

I  left  the  life  than  it  did  when  I  was  teaching 
Sunday  School  at  the  Ox  Bow." 

"Then  you  don't  think  you'll  live  forever 
like  the  Good  Book  tells  us?"  inquired  Joe 
incredulously. 

"I  am  afraid  not ;  tomorrow  night  this  time 
I  will  be  a  few  disconnected  particles  of 
spirit,  growing  fainter  every  hour.  By  the 
next  morning  I  shall  not  be  at  all.  Spirits 
are  a  part  of  their  environment.  Just  as 
there  is  a  silver  light  in  a  forest  of  original 
white  pines,  a  blue  light  in  a  forest  of  white 
hemlocks,  a  green  light  in  a  forest  of  red 
hemlocks,  and  when  you  cut  the  trees  the 
light  goes  with  them.  The  fragments  of  my 
personality  are  a  part  of  the  lights  and 
shadows  of  this  grove,  and  tomorrow  you  are 
to  destroy  it. 

"I  have  the  ability  to  transport  myself 
considerable  distances,  but  only  where  the 
lights  and  shadows  of  this  forest  fall ;  beyond 
it  I  am  nothing.  Quite  often  during  the  past 
six  years  since  they  began  destroying  the 
forest,  spirits  terribly  frayed  and  uncertain 
would  waft  themselves  to  this  Spring,  which 


50  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

possesses  certain  stimulating  qualities,  and 
gasp,  and  try  to  say  a  few  words,  before  dis- 
solving into  emptiness.  There  was  old  Reu- 
genberg,  the  crippled  civil  war  veteran,  who 
was  waylaid  and  killed  for  his  pension  money 
on  the  hill  above  Germania;  he  drifted  here 
after  they  lumbered  out  the  grove  where  he 
died ;  he  tried  to  tell  me  where  he  buried  a  pot 
of  gold,  but  he  was  nothing  before  I  could 
catch  his  syllables.  And  Tony  Capella,  the 
Italian  camp  boss,  who  was  slain  by  his 
drunken  men  on  a  Saturday  night;  he  came 
here  alter  they  cut  the  giant  pine  under 
which  he  breathed  his  last;  he  wanted  to 
forgive  an  enemy  in  the  old  country,  but  I 
could  not  learn  the  name;  he  fell  into  thin 
air  with  a  groan.  And  Leonard  Murns,  the 
highwayman  of  the  Pike,  who  hanged  him- 
self in  a  hunter's  shanty  when  he  saw  his 
sweetheart  out  walking  with  another  man; 
with  all  his  bravado  that  broke  his  heart — 
he  wanted  to  send  her  a  few  words  of  love 
through  me,  but  I  never  had  a  chance  to 
transmit  his  message. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  51 

"Then  there  was  Edna  Stryker,  that  little 
girl  who  was  murdered  and  thrown  in  a 
swamp ;  she  was  here  for  several  nights,  cry- 
ing piteously,  and  begging  that  her  spirit  per- 
sist until  she  could  be  sure  an  innocent  man 
was  not  punished  for  the  crime ;  she  was  last 
here  on  a  moonlight  night  and  its  rays  ab- 
sorbed her,  so  she  came  no  more.  There  were 
others,  but  too  faint  to  recognize,  some  had 
come  too  far,  others  had  spent  themselves 
in  their  frantic  efforts  to  speak  to  every  one 
they  met  on  the  way. 

"But  as  I  left  the  living  world  here,  I  am 
strongest  here,  but  just  the  same,  I  cease  to 
be  even  a  spirit,  when  these  beloved  hemlocks 
fall.  There  are  spirits  that  inhabit  houses; 
they  are  a  part  of  the  lights  and  shadows  of 
the  house;  they  go  into  nothingness  if  it  is 
torn  down.  They  cannot  transport  them- 
selves like  a  spirit  of  outdoors,  but  must  con- 
fine themeselves  to  a  garret,  chamber  or  stair. 

"But  even  if  a  forest  is  not  cut,  or  a  house 
demolished,  a  spirit  cannot  survive  delivering 
its  message.  The  effort  of  speech  separates 
the  particles,  it's  gone.  If  this  grove  were 


52  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

not  to  be  cut  tomorrow,  and  I  talked  to  you 
this  way,  I  would  vanish  anyway,  but  as  the 
trees  are  to  go,  I  might  as  well  have  my  talk." 

She  paused  and  looked  the  amazed  woods- 
man full  in  the  face,  calming  him  by  the 
charm  of  her  girlish  beauty.  "I  hear  Oscar 
Shandy  is  back,"  she  said  when  she  resumed. 

"Oscar  Shandy!"  shouted  Markley.  "The 
hell  you  say ;  why  he's  the  man  who — " 

"Murdered  me,"  replied  the  shade  of  Hazel 
Trego. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  know  about  him, 
he'd  be  the  last  man  on  earth — " 

"I  would  love  to  see  him  again,  before  I 
go  into  the  void ;  I  saw  you  several  evenings 
before  it  was  dark  enough  for  me  to  materi- 
alize. I  knew  you  were  his  friend ;  I  met  you 
the  winter  I  taught  school  at  Westport.  I 
saw  you  break  the  guard  and  your  watch  fell 
in  a  cranny  in  the  rocks;  it  made  me  very 
happy,  because  I  knew  you  would  return 
after  it.  It  is  now  in  the  crevice  in  that  rock 
right  before  you.  I  want  you  to  give  a  mes- 
sage to  Oscar,  will  you,  please?" 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  53 

"I  sure  will,"  replied  Markley,  "but  where 
is  he  ?  I  never  heard  of  him  revisiting  these 
parts  since  they  put  that  reward  on  his  cap- 
ture nine  years  ago." 

"You  will  find  him  in  Lewisburg,  but  you 
must  not  judge  him  harshly;  he  is  not  to 
blame,  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it.  Oscar  and 
I  kept  company  since  I  was  14  years  old.  He 
was  the  only  man  I  ever  cared  for,  and 
though  I  would  have  loved  to  have  married 
him,  he  never  once  mentioned  the  subject. 
When  I  was  18  I  began  to  teach  school,  and 
taught  short  terms  at  Westport,  Keating  and 
Sinnemahoning. 

"When  I  went  away  Oscar  would  conceive 
the  idea  that  I  was  receiving  attention  from 
other  men,  and  would  come  to  see  me,  and 
abuse  me  terribly,  of  ten  in  the  presence  of  the 
families  with  whom  I  boarded.  This  caused 
talk  and  cost  me  many  friends.  But  as 
friends  dropped  away  I  loved  him  the  more, 
seeking  to  make  up  the  deficiency  of  other 
companionship  in  him.  He  worked  in  the 
woods  every  summer,  and  once  or  twice  rail- 
roaded in  winter,  but  he  never  held  anything 


54  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

long.  He  had  flirtations  with  dozens  of  other 
girls,  but  I  loved  him  too  much  to  protest, 
and  often  cried  myself  to  sleep  for  fear  some 
one  would  get  him  away  from  me.  He  would 
show  me  letters  he  was  mailing  to  girls,  and 
packets  of  letters  he  had  gotten  from  them, 
but  this  only  stimulated  my  adoration,  as  I 
liked  to  feel  my  lover  was  'a  ladies'  man.' 

"You  recollect  what  a  fine,  big  fellow  he 
was,  and  what  grand  dark  eyes  and  hair  he 
had ;  why  I  openly  told  him  he  was  the  hand- 
somest man  in  the  world.  In  the  summer 
after  my  20th  birthday  I  had  a  chance  to 
teach  a  while  at  Oleona,  the  regular  teacher 
being  down  with  typhoid.  I  boarded  with 
Mrs.  Steenerson,  a  Norwegian  widow,  whose 
house  is  now  used  by  Fred  Parmentier,  your 
boss,  as  the  main  shanty  of  his  camp.  Mrs. 
Steenerson  had  two  daughters  about  my  own 
age,  and  in  every  way  the  home  was  a  pleas- 
ant one. 

"Soon  after  my  arrival  a  young  man  named 
Arthur  Renninger,  they  called  him  Professor 
Renninger,  came  to  visit  his  grandparents  at 
the  next  farm.  He  was  well  educated,  being 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  55 

principal  of  a  high  school  somewhere  down 
country.  Though  he  was  only  26  years  of 
age,  he  had  graduated  from  a  Normal  School 
and  a  college,  had  travelled  in  a  number  of 
states,  which  made  him  an  interesting  talker. 
But  that  was  all ;  I  could  never  have  cared  for 
him;  he  wore  glasses,  had  a  long  thin  nose, 
and  pale  yellow  hair.  He  wasn't  my  ideal  in 
the  least. 

"He  tried  his  best  to  be  attentive  to  me, 
gave  me  books  to  read,  and  often  joined  me 
when  I  was  walking  back  from  school.  He 
met  me  so  often  that  I  suspected  he  waited 
for  me;  he  could  not  have  been  on  the  same 
road  at  the  same  hour  so  many  times  by  acci- 
dent. At  last  I  told  him  I  had  a  sweetheart, 
but  it  didn't  seem  to  make  any  difference.  He 
became  even  more  attentive,  as  if  he  fancied 
he  could  'cut  out'  as  handsome  a  man  as 
Oscar.  His  attentions  became  tiresome,  so  I 
was  rude  to  him  whenever  I  could,  especially 
when  others  were  present.  I  guess  he  took 
the  hint,  for  he  became  more  shy,  and  only 
saw  me  occasionally  when  he  dropped  in  at 


56  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

my  boarding  place  to  give  me  a  new  book  or 
magazine. 

"One  mild  October  evening  after  supper  I 
walked  up  the  road  to  the  schoolhouse  to  get 
a  book  I  had  forgotten.  On  the  way  back  I 
saw  a  man's  figure  coming  towards  me.  I  at 
once  supposed  it  to  be  Professor  Renninger, 
so  I  walked  fast  so  as  to  shorten  as  much  as 
possible  the  inevitable  stroll  with  him.  But 
mind  you,  the  Professor  was  not  a  horrid 
fellow,  only  my  love  for  Oscar  was  so  intense 
I  felt  it  dishonorable  to  be  in  another's  com- 
pany. When  I  got  closer  I  saw  it  wasn't  the 
young  teacher,  but  a  larger  man,  and  then  I 
made  out  it  was  none  other  than  Oscar 
Shandy. 

"He  greeted  me  with  a  lot  of  swearing,  for 
the  poor  fellow  had  been  drinking.  'You 
walked  fast  to  meet  your  lover,  that — ?'  I 
tried  to  protest  in  as  loud  tones  as  I  could 
muster  that  I  had  no  lover  other  than  my 
Oscar,  and  fibbed  by  saying  that  I  walked 
faster  so  as  to  be  with  him.  I  did  not  want 
him  to  know  I  ever  thought  of  the  teacher. 
But  he  would  not  believe  me,  and  went  on  to 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  57 

say  how  he  knew  everthing  about  my  meeting 
the  fellow  on  the  road,  his  visits  to  my  board- 
ing place,  and  so  on. 

"I  continued  to  deny,  and  went  so  far  as 
to  ridicule  the  personal  appearance  of  poor 
Arthur  Renninger.  'Why,  he  wears  glasses/ 
I  protested.  But  Oscar's  angry  passions 
were  growing  more  uncontrollable  every 
minute.  Finally  with  a  volley  of  oaths  he 
seized  me  by  the  throat,  and  choked  me  untij 
I  knew  no  more.  Later  I  sort  of  half  regained 
consciousness,  and  recognized  that  I  was  in 
my  lover's  arms,  and  that  he  was  carrying 
me  up  the  mountain.  I  felt  so  happy  to  be 
in  his  arms  I  made  no  effort  to  speak. 

"It  was  a  long  climb,  but  not  hard  like  the 
one  you  had  this  evening,  for  then  the  moun- 
tains were  covered  with  white  hemlocks,  and 
free  of  all  underbrush.  About  twenty  feet 
below  this  spring  you  can  see  that  lot  of  long, 
flat  rocks.  He  laid  me  on  one  of  them,  and 
began  to  lift  some  of  the  others.  After  he  had 
made  a  sort  of  excavation  he  picked  me  up 
again,  and  laid  me  in  it.  He  stooped  over  and 
placed  his  large  hand,  which  was  very  cold, 


58  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

on  my  heart.  I  was  dimly  conscious  even 
though  my  heart  must  have  ceased  beating — 
my  spirit  was  disentangling  itself  from  the 
bodily  shell. 

"No  doubt  he  was  satisfied  I  was  dead,  for 
he  rolled  a  number  of  the  large  flat  stones 
on  top  of  me,  and  I  seemed  to  hear  his  foot- 
steps as  he  climbed  the  mountain  and  disap- 
peared over  the  summit.  All  at  once  I  felt 
myself  enveloped  in  a  blaze  of  blinding  white 
light — I  was  part  of  the  air,  but  not  of  it — 
I  could  see  the  rudely  made  grave  where  my 
poor  body  rested. 

"When  daylight  came  I  was  still  among  the 
trees  around  the  Boiling  Spring,  but  felt  my- 
self fainter  and  weaker.  As  night  fell,  I 
grew  stronger,  and  could  move  from  place  to 
place ;  I  was  mistress  of  my  soul's  progress. 
I  could  distinguish  time  by  daylight  and  dark. 
I  seemed  to  have  more  volition  than  when 
alive.  I  brought  myself  to  the  edge  of  the 
public  road,  determined  to  leave  the  lonesome 
mountain,  but  the  different  lights  and 
shadows  of  the  roadway  and  the  sky  above 
diluted  my  spiritual  essence,  and  to  save  my- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  59 

self  from  annihilation  I  hurried  back  to  the 
cool,  vivifying  atmosphere  of  the  spring.  In 
a  few  days  a  band  of  searchers  discovered  my 
remains,  and  carried  it  away.  How  they 
found  out  I  was  stowed  away  in  that  out  of 
the  way  spot,  I  know  not — some  of  the  men 
wept,  as  they  were  carrying  the  remains 
down  the  hill.  For  a  long,  long  stretch  I 
never  saw  a  living  thing  around  the  spring 
except  the  wild  animals  and  birds.  I  once 
saw  a  great  tawney  panther  with  his  breast 
torn  off  by  buckshot,  drinking  here,  and 
groaning  with  agony  he  crawled  away  to 
die.  Deer  often  drank  here,  and  wildcats 
played  their  comical  games  among  the  flat 
rocks.  I  saw  one  once  pounce  on  a  wild 
pigeon  as  it  was  drinking;  its  mate  flew 
away.  These  were  the  only  wild  pigeons 
that  came  here  during  my  stay. 

"Owls,  foxes  and  porcupines  came  about 
in  abundance,  and  occasionally  a  pine  marten 
or  a  fisher  fox.  Two  wolverenes  fought  to  the 
death  on  the  brink  of  the  spring,  and  their 
bodies  rotted  away  on  the  scene  of  their  aw- 
ful struggle.  Occasionally  hunters  stopped 


60  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

to  drink  the  fine  water,  but  none  came  here 
in  the  dark,  when  I  had  the  power  to  make 
myself  known. 

"You  came  here  at  the  right  time.  What 
is  more,  you  are  a  reliable  person,  and  if 
Providence  does  exist,  you  were  surely  sent 
here  to  bear  my  message  to  my  beloved  Oscar. 
I  heard  of  his  return  to  these  parts  by 
listening  to  a  party  of  six  hunters  talking 
while  they  ate  their  lunch  at  the  spring.  It 
was  during  the  deer  season  last  November. 
They  had  been  drinking  whiskey  freely,  and 
said  things  that  were  best  kept  to  themselves. 
One  of  them,  more  inebriated  than  the  rest, 
remarked  that  he  had  been  to  Lewisburg  the 
week  previous,  and  had  met  the  fugitive  mur- 
derer, Oscar  Shandy,  who  was  back  and 
working  as  night  man  in  a  livery  in  the  alley 
at  the  rear  of  the  Commercial  hotel.  All  the 
party  said  he  had  a  lot  of  nerve  to  return, 
with  the  big  rewards  still  in  force,  but  the  in- 
formant added  that  he  had  grown  a  mus- 
tache and  kept  his  curly  hair  cropped  close 
as  a  disguise. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  61 

"  'Still  he's  the  same  old  Oscar  we  used  to 
know,'  he  went  on,  'having  a  gay  time  with 
all  the  waitresses  at  the  hotel,  and  going  on 
sprees  every  Saturday  night.'  Although  at 
the  end  of  their  conversation  on  the  subject, 
the  hunters  agreed  to  tell  no  one  of  Oscar's 
return,  I  feared  them  because  they  were 
drinking  men.  I  hoped  they  would  remain 
until  dark,  so  I  could  materialize  and  send 
him  a  message,  but  alas,  about  4  o'clock  they 
gathered  together  their  rifles  and  traps,  and 
made  off.  My  fears  grew  greater  and  greater, 
especially  when  I  saw  the  forest  being  de- 
stroyed, for  I  knew  I  must  go  with  it.  But 
you  have  come  in  time  to  take  my  message 
— tell  Oscar  to  be  careful  and  not  let  them 
catch  him,  and  tell  him  that  I  love  him  more 
than  ever." 

This  last  sentence  was  uttered  clearer  and 
more  distinctly  than  anything  she  had  yet 
said.  With  the  final  word  she  faded  from 
sight,  blending  and  combining  with  a  ray  of 
golden  sunlight  from  the  early  dawn  which 
sparkled  on  the  ever-changing  surface  of  the 
Boiling  Spring. 


IV. 


THE  STORY  OF  LEWIS'S  LAKE 


HE  scenic  beauties  of  Lewis's 
Lake,  re  -  named  Eagles- 
mere,  are  too  generally 
known  to  need  further  de- 
scription. This  wonderful 
body  of  water  spread  out 
on  the  summit  of  a  moun- 
tain twenty-two  hundred 
feet  above  sea  level,  has  at- 
tracted visitors  from  all  parts  of  the  country. 
Costly  hotels  and  summer  cottages  line  its 
banks,  interspersed  among  patches  of  the 
original  hemlock  forest,  making  it  in  every 
respect  the  most  unique  and  attractive  resort 
in  Central  Pennsylvania. 

Like  most  of  the  interesting  spots  in  the 
mountains,  it  has  its  legend.  The  legend 
is  an  old  one,  in  fact  one  of  the  very  oldest 
that  have  been  handed  down  from  the  earliest 
inhabitants  of  this  mystic  region.  It  goes 
back  to  a  period  a  thousand  years  ago, 

62 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  63 

when  parts  of  Europe  were  as  wild  and  full 
of  superstitions  as  the  land  of  the  Redmen 
across  the  sea.  Those  competent  to  judge 
state  that  the  bottom  of  Lewis's  Lake  has 
never  been  sounded,  and  the  old  term  "bot- 
tomless" applies  to  it  as  well  as  it  did  any- 
where. This  gives  a  sort  of  scientific  con- 
firmation to  the  tale,  providing,  so  to  speak, 
a  basis  of  faith,  to  those  who  want  to  be- 
lieve it. 

Every  Indian  in  the  West  Branch  Valley 
and  its  tributaries  knew  the  legend,  but  it 
was  equally  familiar  to  the  aborigines  along 
the  Allegheny  or  by  the  shores  of  Chesa- 
peake Bay.  It  was  a  strange  circumstance 
that  no  matter  where  the  story  was  told,  it 
was  always  the  same,  even  to  the  smallest 
detail.  What  is  now  Lewis's  Lake,  so  the 
Indian  story  ran,  was  once  a  great  open 
chasm,  in  the  depths  of  which  was  an  en- 
trance to  the  Underworld,  or  realm  of  spirits. 
If  in  the  flesh  an  Indian  had  left  undone  an 
important  work,  or  had  wronged  his  tribe 
or  an  individual,  at  death  his  shade  was 


64  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

halted  at  the  "Gate  to  the  Unseen,"  and  sent 
back  to  do  penance. 

It  was  always  with  a  feeling  of  doubt  that 
spirits  descended  the  long  flights  of  steps 
at  dusk ;  few  were  wise  enough  to  determine 
if  they  would  be  allowed  to  enter  in  peace, 
or  be  ordered  back  to  jibber  and  flit  and  beg 
forgiveness  of  their  enemies.  Only  those  ad- 
mitted through  the  sacred  portals  were 
happy,  but  even  that  was  supposition,  for  no 
spirit  that  had  entered  ever  returned  to  de- 
scribe the  Paradise. 

No  living  being  was  allowed  to  explore  the 
abyss,  which  was  guarded  by  a  force  of  six 
hundred  aimed  high  priests,  Indians  of  the 
highest  integrity  and  honor.  The  Indian 
kings  were  hereditary  guardians  -  in  -  chief, 
and  so  deeply  they  felt  their  responsibilties, 
that  they  had  followed  the  divine  injunction 
to  "keep  out,"  at  least  as  far  as  tradition 
could  be  followed  into  the  shadowy  past. 

At  the  time  of  this  story,  the  king  of  the 
combined  tribes  of  Indians  in  what  is  now 
Pennsylvania  was  old  Peaceful  Valley,  whose 
reign  lasted  the  unusual  period  of  sixty-three 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  65 

years.  On  the  tenth  year  of  his  reign  he  had 
conquered  his  last  enemies,  so  that  during 
the  greater  part  of  his  sway  his  authority 
had  been  undisputed.  He  was  of  a  devoutly 
religious  nature,  many  miracles  having  oc- 
curred while  he  conducted  sacrificial  services 
at  the  Gateway  to  the  Underworld.  At  length, 
"full  of  years  and  honors,"  his  infirmities 
overcame  him  and  at  the  ripe  age  of  ninety- 
seven  years  he  passed  away. 

His  funeral,  the  greatest  ever  recorded  in 
Indian  history,  lasted  ninety-seven  days.  The 
priests  who  were  specially  gifted  with  the 
power  of  seeing  spirits  of  the  dead  descend 
into  the  abyss  declared  that  when  Peaceful 
Valley's  shade  reached  the  portals  it  was 
greeted  by  a  troop  ol  angels  wearing  crowns, 
denoting  kingly  rank,  and  said  to  be  an  un- 
precedented honor.  His  eldest  son,  who  was 
to  inherit  the  throne,  was  named  Stormy  Tor- 
rent. Seven  feet  tall,  loud,  and  disagreeable, 
he  was  the  complete  antithesis  of  his  la- 
mented father  in  disposition.  Perhaps,  hav- 
ing waited  so  long  to  inherit  the  power,  his 
nature  had  become  soured.  Toward  the 


66  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

latter  part  of  the  ninety-seven  day  funeral 
he  went  off  on  a  hunting  expedition,  explain- 
ing that  the  pomp  and  pageantry  tired  him. 

When  a  great  event  took  place,  it  lasted 
the  number  of  days  that  would  corres- 
pond in  years  to  the  age  of  the  chief  partici- 
pant, consequently  Stormy  Torrent,  aged 
forty-six,  was  to  have  a  forty-six  day  coro- 
nation. He  did  not  miss  a  moment  of  it,  and 
it  was  a  sumptuous  affair,  exceeding  in  cost 
and  labor  any  coronation  held  previously,  so 
swore  the  servile  historians  of  the  court.  The 
new  king  enjoyed  the  ceremonies,  and  became 
so  intoxicated  by  the  songs,  hymns,  poems, 
and  addresses  in  his  honor,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  human  sacrifices,  that  he  imagined 
himself  to  be  the  greatest  and  most  exalted 
human  being  that  had  ever  walked  the  earth. 

After  the  grand  events  were  ended,  and 
life  settled  into  its  ordinary  routine  he  began 
to  suffer  horribly  from  discontent  and  ennui. 
He  wanted  to  do  something  "new"  every  day, 
taxing  his  advisors  and  attendants  to  the 
utmost  in  furnishing  sensations.  If  he  had 
been  a  warrior  he  might  have  started  puni- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  67 

tive  expeditions  against  some  tribes  who  re- 
sented paying  the  enormous  tribute  levied 
towards  the  expenses  of  the  coronation,  but 
he  was  indifferent  to  all  forms  of  fighting. 

As  he  liked  human  sacrifices  and  the  tor- 
turing of  criminals,  it  was  adopted  on  a  large 
scale,  and  friendless  or  infirm  Indians  were 
tempted  to  commit  crimes  in  order  that  they 
might  be  seized  and  roasted  alive  or  cut  to 
pieces  for  the  kingly  edification.  He  did  not 
like  the  ordinary  forms  of  hunting,  only  ani- 
mal drives,  where  thousands  of  beasts  met 
death  at  one  time.  His  huntsmen  were  kept 
busy  night  and  day  collecting  the  poor  beasts 
in  corrals  for  the  purpose.  He  must  needs 
have  a  fresh  wife  every  week  and  the  dis- 
carded ones  were  killed  so  that  a  woman  who 
had  been  loved  by  the  king  could  not  become 
the  wife  of  one  of  his  inferiors. 

A  month  after  the  coronation  he  was  on  the 
point  of  going  crazy,  for  the  want  of  "some- 
thing new."  Half  of  his  ministers  had  com- 
mitted suicide  after  having  exhausted  their 
stock  of  suggestions  for  his  diversion.  One 
night  while  he  was  tossing  on  his  couch,  rest- 


68  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

less  and  unhappy,  an  idea  came  to  him,  which 
made  him  jump  to  his  feet  and  dance  with 
savage  glee.  He  would  do  what  no  other 
human  being  had  dared;  he  would  descend 
into  the  Underworld,  see  what  it  was  like, 
converse  with  the  shades  of  his  illustrious 
ancestors,  and  then  come  out  again,  steeped 
in  divine  wisdom. 

He  called  his  advisors  around  him,  order- 
ing that  all  of  his  tribe  able  to  travel  should 
start  immediately  in  different  directions  and 
bring  every  Indian  within  a  radius  of  four 
hundred  miles  to  the  north  of  the  abyss,  to 
watch  his  majestic  descent  into  the  Spirit 
Land.  The  tribesmen  went  away  in  happy 
frame  of  mind,  as  they  knew  the  farther  they 
separated  themselves  from  the  vain-glorious 
despot  the  safer  their  lives ;  some  pretended 
to  lose  themselves  in  the  trackless  forests, 
and  never  came  back. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  domain  were  given 
the  space  of  two  moons  to  assemble.  Indians 
being  naturally  restless  and  curious,  it  was 
not  difficult  to  gather  them  by  the  thousands 
around  the  entrance  to  the  "unknown  world." 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


Many  of  them  had  never  had  a  look  at  the 
new  king,  and  this  was  a  fine  opportunity  to 
see  him  at  his  best  when  he  was  scorning  tra- 
dition and  showing  himself  the  equal  of  the 
rulers  of  the  land  of  shades. 

The  morning  appointed  for  the  great  per- 
formance dawned  bright  and  clear.  Stormy 
Torrent,  when  he  peered  through  the  flaps 
of  the  royal  tepee,  was  amazed  at  the  vast 
concourse  of  spectators.  He  turned  to  his 
minister  of  state  and  remarked  that  he  had 
not  dreamed  he  held  sway  over  so  many  souls. 
When  a  loud  beating  of  drums  announced 
the  time  had  come  for  the  mighty  ruler  to 
sally  forth,  there  was  an  hour's  delav  be- 
fore he  appeared.  If  the  truth  were  known 
Stormy  Torrent  was  suffering  from  a  bad 
case  of  stage-fright. 

Like  a  pampered  grand  opera  star  he  re- 
fused to  "go  on"  unless  some  added  induce- 
ment was  given.  When,  for  the  fiftieth  time 
he  peeped  out  of  his  tent,  his  eyes  rested  on 
the  slender  form  of  an  Indian  princess  from 
the  shores  of  Lake  Erie  who  was  strolling 
past.  She  was  Laurel-Eyes,  the  beautiful 


7Q  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

daughter  of  an  old  chieftain  named  Purple 
Boneset.  Stormy  Torrent  gazed  at  her  with 
longing  glances,  and  then  called  to  his  min- 
ister of  state.  "Bring  that  beautiful  prin- 
cess to  me  at  once,"  he  commanded,  and  the 
aged  minister  did  his  bidding  to  the  letter. 

Returning  with  the  reluctant  maiden,  who 
was  followed  by  her  perplexed  father  and 
brothers,  the  minister  was  told  to  array  her 
in  costly  garments  so  she  could  accompany 
Stormy  Torrent  on  his  mission  to  the  Under- 
world. Perhaps  her  father  and  brothers  dis- 
liked the  idea,  but  they  were  at  length  con- 
soled by  the  appearance  of  the  mighty 
ruler,  followed  by  the  graceful  figure  of  the 
Princess  Laurel-Eyes.  The  couple  presented 
a  striking  picture,  and  were  loudly  and  loy- 
ally cheered.  Stormy  Torrent  wore  a  trail- 
ing robe  spangled  with  silver  and  gold,  while 
his  head-dress  was  of  eagle  feathers,  dyed 
many  colors.  The  Indian  maiden  was  simi- 
larly attired  except  that  instead  of  the  eagle 
feathers  she  wore  a  head-dress  of  dove's 
wings. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  71 

As  they  neared  the  entrance,  the  priestly 
class  began  a  song  of  praise,  being  joined  in 
the  choruses  by  the  entire  multitude.  Thus 
far  it  looked  as  if  the  affair  was  to  be  a  com- 
plete success,  and  as  the  pair  descended  the 
long  flights  of  steps  they  were  pelted  with 
thousands  of  flowers.  But  on  the  moment 
they  disappeared  from  view  the  heavens 
darkened,  and  were  racked  with  terrifying 
peals  of  thunder  and  flashes  of  lightning. 
These  were  followed  by  the  most  awful  down- 
pour of  rain  that  had  ever  occurred  in  the 
memory  of  the  oldest  squaw. 

The  solemnity  of  the  occasion  was  for- 
gotten, and  everyone  from  high  priests  to 
chained  captives  ran  pell  mell  to  cover.  Hun- 
dreds of  women,  children  and  old  persons 
were  trampled  to  death  in  the  mad  rush. 
Class  distinctions  were  abandoned,  the  most 
aristocratic  pricesses  hiding  their  heads  un- 
der the  blankets  of  burly  slaves.  Many  fell 
over  the  edges  of  the  chasm,  and  took  an  in- 
voluntary "header"  to  the  land  of  ghosts. 

The  turbulent  downpour  seemed  to  con- 
centrate itself  on  the  "great  opening,"  pour- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


ing  from  above  and  draining  in  from  the  sur- 
rounding hills.  The  abyss  began  rapidly  fill- 
ing with  water,  which  rose  higher  and  higher, 
until  it  presented  the  appearance  of  a  vast 
lake. 

Some  of  the  shrewdest  priests  had  climbed 
to  the  tops  of  trees,  expecting  to  witness  a 
miracle,  an  apotheosis  of  Stormy  Torrent 
emerging  unharmed  from  the  seething, 
churning,  frothy  depths.  But  the  day  of 
miracles  had  passed.  When  the  depression 
was  full  to  the  brink,  the  storm  ceased  as 
suddenly  as  it  had  commenced. 

With  the  cessation  came  not  the  slightest 
trace  of  the  missing  king  or  his  fair  attend- 
ant. The  priests  prayed  and  chanted,  and 
went  through  their  mystic  dances;  a  thous- 
and infants  were  offered  as  sacrifices,  but 
Stormy  Torrent  had  vanished  as  completely 
as  if  he  had  never  existed. 

During  the  night  the  great  crowds  of  In- 
dians began  moving  off  to  their  homes.  A 
new  day  brought  rich  sunshine,  and  a  cloud- 
less sky,  which  looked  down  on  the  waters 
of  a  beautiful,  tranquil  lake,  clear  as  crystal 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  73 

and  inscrutable  as  the  mystery  of  life  itself. 

Centuries  have  passed,  but  it  has  never 
receded  nor  grown  less. 

But  the  Indians  never  quite  became  ac- 
customed to  its  presence,  and  ascribed  to  it 
many  supernatural  qualities.  When  storms 
arose,  they  said,  out  towards  the  center,  the 
waters  always  surged  and  boiled  and  leaped 
upwards  like  a  geyser,  and  from  the  foam 
could  be  seen  the  face  and  outstretched  arms 
of  a  beautiful  maiden. 

Sometimes  if  the  wind  died  down  for  an 
instant,  a  voice  calling  for  help  could  be 
heard,  but  would  be  lost  again  in  the  wailing 
of  the  tempest.  Sometimes  young  braves, 
with  a  spirit  of  the  sheerest  hardihood,  would 
venture  out  in  their  canoes  to  try  and  rescue 
the  unfortunate  derelict,  but  they  were  al- 
ways swamped  and  drowned  before  reaching 
their  goal. 

When  the  Indians  were  driven  to  the  north, 
and  white  settlers  pitched  their  camps  on 
the  shores  of  Lewis's  Lake,  they  also  were 
lured  into  peril  and  death  by  the  entreaties 
of  this  unhappy  siren.  Two  young  French- 


74  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

men  were  drowned  about  1760,  leaving  their 
hepless  widows  and  children  in  the  awful 
wilderness. 

After  their  fate  the  story  spread,  and  now 
no  one  bothers  to  notice  the  struggling  figure 
when  the  storms  agitate  the  center  of  the 
lake.  It  does  seem  as  if  some  day  the  beauti- 
ful Laurel-Eyes  will  be  freed,  as  her  part 
in  the  forbidden  visit  to  the  Underworld  was 
not  of  her  own  choosing.  But  as  for  Stormy 
Torrent,  in  durance  vile,  in  tortures  hideous, 
he  is  probably  doing  penance  now,  in  the  in- 
most recesses  of  the  earth,  a  being  who  dared 
to  penetrate  into  the  realms  reserved  only 
for  the  happy  shades  of  the  departed. 


THE  LAST  PACK 


ES,"  said  old  Sam  Emery, 
"those  are  genuine  wolf 
skins,  all  right,"  and  he 
brought  his  foot  down 
heavily  on  one  of  them  to 
emphasize  his  words.  We 
had  been  admiring  four 
foot-rugs  made  of  these 
brown,  bushy  hides,  which 
were  quite  a  curiosity  in  Pennsylvania.  "I 
value  them  next  to  my  wife  and  family,"  he 
went  on,  "because  I  killed  them  myself.  They 
belonged  to  the  last  pack  of  wolves  in  this 
state." 

We  were  indeed  surprised  to  hear  this  in- 
formation, as  we  had  long  wanted  to  see  a 
Pennsylvania  wolf  hide,  so  as  to  be  satisfied 
as  to  the  variety  of  wolf  which  formerly  in- 
habited our  forests.  Instead  of  a  solemn  wait 
for  dinner  at  the  lonely  little  house  where 
we  had  stopped,  having  missed  our  road  and 

75 


76  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

gotten  into  White  Deer  Valley  instead  of 
Sugar  Valley,  we  were  to  be  treated  mean- 
while to  some  information  for  which  we  had 
been  searching  for  several  years. 

It  is  in  the  most  out-of-the-way  corners 
where  we  learn  the  most  precious  facts,  and 
anyone  who  does  not  travel  will  find  the  solu- 
tion of  even  some  of  the  simplest  problems  in- 
terminable. All  can  be  made  easier  by  abid- 
ing by  the  principle  of  "luck  in  travel." 

"It  was  before  your  time,"  continued  old 
Emery,  "but  the  papers  all  had  accounts  or 
how  a  party  of  us  raftsmen  wiped  out  a  pack 
of  twenty  hungry  wolves.  Nobody  thought 
anything  of  it  thirty  years  ago,  as  all  kinds 
of  fierce  adventures  were  being  reported 
from  the  wild  regions  in  the  central  part  of 
the  state.  Isiow,  if  a  man  kills  a  good-sized 
bear  he  gets  a  column  and  his  picture  in  the 
North  American. 

"When  we  killed  twenty  wolves  WP  got  a 
few  lines  in  the  country  papers,  and  not  one 
Philadelphia  papers  copied  it.  I  can  show  you 
the  notices  now,  if  you  want  to  see  them," 
and  the  old  man  went  to  the  shelf  beside 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  77 

the  clock,  and  took  down  a  much-used  cook 
book.  Pasted  in  the  back  were  several  clip- 
ping's from  poorly  printed  newspapers,  yel- 
low with  age,  telling  in  a  few 'brief  lines  how 
a  party  of  raftsmen  had  been  attacked  by 
wolves,  but  had  succeeded  in  killing  all  of 
them. 

That  was  about  all,  although  the  incident 
deserved  to  have  been  prominently  featured. 

"Those  are  pretty  short  notices,"  I  said, 
as  I  handed  back  the  book.  "Won't  you  tell 
the  entire  story?" 

"Dinner  won't  be  ready  for  fifteen  minutes 
yet,  and  I'll  try  to  give  it  to  you  the  best  I 
can,  before  you  are  called  by  the  woman." 

After  putting  some  more  wood  in  the  stove, 
for  it  was  a  raw,  overcast  October  day,  he 
took  his  place  in  his  chair  and  began  his  in- 
teresting narrative.  "There  were  six  of  us 
on  a  raft  coming  from  Clearfield  early  in 
April,  1879 ;  the  weather  was  bitter  cold,  and 
there  was  snow  on  all  the  mountains.  Our 
raft  had  been  poorly  built,  and  after  we  left 
Williamsport  it  seemed  to  be  loosening  all 
over.  A  short  way  above  Muncy,  as  the 


78  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

water  was  running  high,  we  got  pretty  un- 
easy. 

"We  pushed  in  and  tied  in  a  snug  little 
eddy  at  the  foot  of  the  big  Bald  Eagle  moun- 
tain. That  was  a  pretty  wild  country  in  those 
days,  but  even  within  the  past  twenty  years 
the  engineers  on  the  railroad  which  runs 
along  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  often  saw 
deer  on  the  track,  and  one  evening  a  big  buck 
jumped  the  bank  into  the  river  to  the  amaze- 
ment of  all  the  passengers  of  the  west-bound 
mail.  The  Bald  Eagle  mountains  come  to  an 
end  at  this  point,  and  back  in  them  all  kinds 
of  animals  were  found. 

"The  wolves  made  their  last  stand  there, 
and  in  the  Seven  mountains  just  west  of 
them.  There  are  a  few  stray  ones  to  this 
day,  but  the  packs  are  gone  forever.  There 
had  been  some  terribly  cold  weather  in  1878 
and  1879,  and  lots  of  snow,  which  made  the 
wolves  which  lived  in  these  mountains  very 
desperate. 

"Formerly  old  settlers  said  this  pack  num- 
bered several  hundred,  but  they  were  trapped 
out  and  died  off  until  when  we  met  them  they 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  79 

had  less  than  two  dozen.  The  night  we  tied 
up  in  the  eddy  was  more  like  January  than 
April;  there  was  a  cold  wind  and  sleet  fell 
most  of  the  time.  We  were  eating  supper 
about  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening;  it  was 
dark,  when  we  first  heard  the  wolves  bark. 

"Some  said  they  were  dogs  running  deer, 
but  we  were  too  old  hunters  for  that,  and  it 
wasn't  long  before  we  all  were  saying 
'wolves.'  By  the  time  supper  was  over  the 
barking  became  so  loud  that  it  seemed  as  if 
the  animals  were  in  the  thick  woods  just 
above  the  railroad  track.  We  thought  when 
the  east-bound  train  came  by  it  would  scare 
them  off,  but  it  had  no  such  effect,  they  were 
only  louder  than  ever. 

"There  were  no  houses  for  half  a  mile 
above  or  below  where  we  were  moored ;  even 
on  the  opposite  bank  it  was  bare  and  cheer- 
less. I  had  a  shot-gun  which  I  used  to  kill 
birds  on  the  river,  and  all  of  us  carried  re- 
volvers, so  we  felt  certain  if  we  were  attacked 
we  could  come  out  victorious.  Ira  Sloppey, 
who  was  a  great  wolf  hunter,  said  he  never 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


heard  of  wolves  attacking  men,   but   they 
would  always  fight  if  cornered. 

"Just  as  the  noise  was  at  its  worst,  we 
heard  the  'dip,  dip/  of  the  paddles  of  a  dug- 
out coming  near  us  in  the  darkness.  Some- 
one had  evidently  seen  our  light  and  was  go- 
ing to  find  out  our  connection  with  the  ugly 
yelping  on  the  hills,  we  thought.  The  boat 
pushed  alongside  and  a  tall,  lean  Yankee,  car- 
rying a  rifle,  got  out,  and  introduced  himself 
as  Hiram  Atwood. 

"  'Boys,  oh,  boys,'  he  said,  'do  you  know 
there  is  a  pack  of  wolves  on  the  bank  above 
you?  It  is  the  first  I've  heard  here  in  seven 
years,  and  I  calculated  if  you  hadn't  the 
spunk  to  go  after  'em,  I  would.'  I  spoke  up 
and  said,  'as  long  as  they  weren't  bothering 
us,  we  felt  it  was  best  to  let  them  alone.' 

"Then  the  Yankee  went  to  his  boat  and  re- 
leased a  small,  hound-like  dog  which  he  had 
tied  to  the  seat,  and  lifted  it  up  the  steep 
bank  to  the  railroad  track.  He  came  down 
in  a  few  minutes  and  told  us  to  load  our  arms 
and  stand  in  line  to  await  developments. 

"All  of  a  sudden  the  noise  became  louder 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  81 

than  ever,  like  hell  let  loose,  and  in  half  a 
minute  that  little  hound  was  back  on  the 
raft,  shivering  at  her  master's  feet.  In  an- 
other half  minute  we  could  see  the  green 
eyes  of  the  wolves,  like  tail  lights  on  a 
caboose,  coming  across  the  tracks  and  down 
the  bank.  Oh,  but  they  were  big  fellows,  you 
can  see  how  they  looked  from  these  rugs. 

"Just  as  the  leader  of  the  pack  reached  the 
first  log  of  the  raft  Atwood  had  him  down 
with  a  bullet  between  the  eyes,  and  each  of 
us  selected  a  victim  and  brought  him  down. 
Some  of  the  tailenders  stopped  short,  half 
way  and  Atwood  brought  them  to  earth 
easily.  Four  or  five  which  were  hit,  turned 
and  made  across  the  tracks  into  the  trees. 

"When  the  excitement  was  over  we  went 
after  our  pelts,  and  we  found  we  had  killed 
eighteen.  Some  of  them  were  very  thin,  but 
all  had  good,  thick  hair.  We  spent  the  night 
skinning  and  dressing  the  hides,  and  threw 
the  nasty  carcasses  into  the  river. 

"Atwood  said  that  every  wolf  he  hit  was 
a  dead  one,  and  suggested  we  go  out  in  the 
woods  next  morning  and  find  the  ones  that 


82  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

got  off.  We  found  one  dead  wolf  near  the 
top  of  the  mountain,  and  on  the  way  back 
the  dog  chased  out  one  that  was  wounded 
from  behind  a  big  burnt  stump,  which  stood 
above  a  spring  near  the  railroad.  Atwood 
finished  him  with  the  butt  of  his  rifle.  So 
we  got  twenty  out  of  a  possible  twenty-two 
or  three. 

"Atwood  did  most  of  the  killing,  but  he 
only  took  a  dozen  hides  as  his  share,  and  let 
us  have  eight  to  divide  among  ourselves.  We 
left  them  all  with  him,  however,  to  collect  the 
bounties.  When  we  got  back  from  our  trip 
I  stopped  off  at  Muncy  and  walked  out  to  his 
place,  and  collected  our  share  of  the  hides. 
Two  had  fallen  to  my  share,  but  later  I 
bought  two  more  from  a  couple  of  the  boys, 
and  I'm  mighty  glad  I  did. 

"The  rest  mistreated  theirs,  used  them  to 
cover  the  seats  of  wagon  boxes,  and  they  soon 
came  to  nothing  from  outdoor  use  in  all  kinds 
of  weather.  I  had  mine  made  into  these  rugs, 
where  they  will  be  always  useful  and  remind 
me  of  that  devilish  night  in  the  eddy.  But, 
as  I  told  you  before,  there  are  still  some 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  83 

wolves  in  these  parts.     I  saw  one  myself  in 
Penn's  Valley  last  spring. 

"It  gave  me  a  look,  and  must  have  recog- 
nized me  as  one  of  the  boys  that  wiped  out 
his  family  tree,  for  he  dropped  his  tail  be- 
tween his  legs  and  made  for  the  brush  like 
a  whitehead."  As  he  said  this  the  kitchen 
door  opened  and  his  "old  woman"  came  in 
and  announced  that  dinner  was  ready.  The 
clock  said  "half -past  four,"  which  meant  that 
we  would  have  a  twenty  mile  drive  before  us, 
mostly  after  dark,  through  what  was  once 
the  great  wolf  country.  "Oh,  how  I  wish 
the  wolves  could  be  met  with  again,"  I  whis- 
pered as  a  substitute  for  saying  grace! 


VI. 


STORY  OF  THE  SULPHUR  SPRING 


HE  Gipsy  caravan,  with  its 
wagons  painted  green  and 
white,  and  with  green  tas- 
sels and  jingling  bells  on 
the  horses,  halted  on  the 
road  opposite  the  Sulphur 
Spring.  Bill  Stanley,  the 
hefty  chieftain,  had  gotten 
out,  and  was  offering  a  tin- 
ful  of  the  water  to  the  women  of  the  party. 
"This  would  have  been  a  royal  place  to 
camp,"  he  remarked,  after  everyone  had  re- 
fused the  odoriferous  refreshment,  "if  only 
the  water  was  different." 

Old  Aaron  Swartwout,  veteran  of  the  Mexi- 
can and  Civil  Wars,  who  had  followed  the 
Gipsies  in  his  broken  down  buggy,  up  the  hill 
from  Loganton,  had  drawn  near  to  listen  to 
the  talk,  now  could  remain  silent  no  longer. 
"The  water  was  different  once,  it  used  to  be 
the  best  spring  in  all  these  valleys,  only  it 

84 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


got  cursed  in  Indian  times,  and  took  on  that 
awful  taste  and  smell."  The  Gipsy  chief 
looked  at  the  white-bearded  old  veteran  a 
minute,  and  then  inquired  good-naturedly, 
how  the  bewitching  occurred  that  could  have 
destroyed  the  general  usefulness  of  this  copi- 
ous source  of  water. 

"Well,  sir,  it  was  this  way,"  said  the  old 
man,  leaning  against  the  wagon,  with  one 
foot  resting  on  the  hub.  "Golden  Treasure 
was  the  king  of  the  Indians  in  this  valley, 
and  with  the  exception  of  Mountain  River 
in  Penn's  Valley,  was  the  greatest  ruler  the 
redmen  had  at  that  time.  He  had  one  daugh- 
ter, the  Princess  Flower  of  Mirth,  for  whom 
he  planned  a  brilliant  future.  His  first  idea 
was  to  marry  her  to  Red  Panther,  old  Moun- 
tain River's  only  son,  but  he  was  struck  by 
lightning  and  killed  while  defying  the  Storm 
God,  which  put  an  end  to  hopes  in  that  di- 
rection. 

"Away  down  the  country  was  a  mighty 
chief  called  Iron  Mountain,  who  had  a  son, 
My  Hills  and  Valleys,  said  to  be  a  most  prom- 
ising young  warrior.  Warfare  with  adjoin- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


ing  tribes,  which  took  her  father  away,  de- 
layed sending  ambassadors  to  arrange  the 
union,  and  the  beautiful  Flower  of  Mirth  was 
often  left  alone  for  weeks  at  a  time  in  the 
kingly  encampment,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  down 
the  road  from  where  your  wagons  are  stand- 
ing at  present.  Of  course,  there  was  an  alert 
bodyguard  to  prevent  sudden  attack  on  the 
camp,  and  plenty  of  women  of  all  ages,  but 
the  difference  in  rank  kept  all  of  these  at  a 
distance,  which  meant  that  the  Princess  was 
unmolested  most  of  the  time. 

"One  summer  evening  there  was  a  comet 
in  the  sky,  and  the  Princess,  knowing  that  it 
generally  foretold  some  war  or  pestilence, 
concluded  she  would  go  out  into  the  moun- 
tains and  get  a  good  look  at  the  celestial  vis- 
itor. She  was  not  a  good  walker,  having 
been  carried  in  litters  all  her  life,  and  when 
she  had  gone  only  a  few  steps  to  the  spring, 
felt  tired  and  sat  down  on  a  rock  to  rest. 
She  had  not  been  there  very  long  when  she 
saw  the  figure  of  a  young  Indian  approaching 
out  of  the  hemlock  wilderness. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  87 

"The  night  was  so  clear  she  could  see  his 
face  plainly,  and  noticed  that  while  he  was 
not  good  looking,  his  appearance  was  striking 
and  unusual.  He  was  short,  squarely  built, 
with  a  large  head,  curly  hair,  deep  set  eyes 
and  a  sharp  straight  nose.  He  carried  large 
baskets  heavily  laden,  in  each  hand.  When 
he  saw  her,  he  apologized  for  his  intrusion, 
and  would  have  passed  on,  had  she  not  asked 
him  if  she  was  going  in  the  proper  direction 
to  obtain  the  best  view  of  the  comet. 

"The  young  Indian  told  her  he  was  going 
to  see  the  comet  himself,  and  would  feel  hon- 
ored if  he  could  escort  her  to  a  magnificent 
point  of  vantage  he  had  lately  discovered. 
It  was  a  rash  act  for  the  Indian  Princess  to 
accompany  a  stranger  to  the  top  of  a  moun- 
tain, at  night,  as  it  was  an  excursion  likely 
to  end  in  one  of  two  ways — either  she  would 
be. ill  used,  or  would  fall  in  love  with  her  es- 
cort. On  the  way,  the  stranger  explained 
that  he  was  gifted  with  the  .power  of  second 
sight,  and  that  he  had  been  driven  from  his 
tribe  far  in  the  west,  because  of  certain  evil 
spells  cast  over  his  tribesmen,  of  which,  he 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


assured  the  Princess,  he  was  entirely  inno- 
cent. 

"Since  the  appearance  of  the  comet,  he  had 
been  visiting  the  mountain  top  every  night, 
trying  to  unfathom  its  meaning.  His  studies 
were  almost  completed,  and  tonight  he  ex- 
pected to  know  fully  what  was  in  store  for 
the  residents  of  the  valley,  which  we  now 
call  Sugar  Valley.  The  Princess  was  natur- 
ally interested  in  such  a  weird  and  remark- 
able young  man,  and  in  the  charm  of  his 
conversation  and  enthusiasm,  forgot  his 
rather  uncouth  appearance. 

"When  they  reached  the  summit,  they 
stood  together  on  a  great  flat  boulder,  watch- 
ing silently  the  huge,  brilliant,  virile  comet, 
tearing  its  way  through  the  heavens,  leaving 
a  trail  behind  which  seemed  like  the  atoms 
of  shattered  stars  that  had  tried  to  dispute 
its  onward  course.  The  Princess  felt  cold 
and  instinctively  drew  near  to  her  com- 
panion, and  soon  their  hands  were  touching, 
and  before  long  his  arm  was  around  her.  She 
had  never  been  close  to  a  man  before,  and 
the  thrill  which  the  stranger  sent  through 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


her,  vibrated  and  throbbed  from  head  to  foot. 

"She  forgot  all  about  time,  and  the  heav- 
ens were  swallowing  up  the  stars  when  they 
began  their  downward  climb.  On  the  way, 
she  asked  him  if  he  had  read  the  secret  of  the 
comet  to  his  satisfaction.  He  was  slow  to 
answer,  but  finally  told  her  that  he  could 
see  nothing  in  it  that  meant  disaster  to  her 
father,  or  her  family,  or  to  any  other  Indian, 
except  himself.  He  said  it  disclosed  the  story 
of  his  own  ruin,  and  that  this  night  of  happi- 
ness was  to  be  one  of  the  last  he  would  ever 
experience. 

Flower  of  Mirth  chided  him  for  being  so 
downcast  after  they  had  spent  such  a  bliss- 
ful evening  together,  and  he  was  inconsolable 
until  she  promised  to  meet  him  at  the  spring 
the  next  evening.  It  was  almost  daybreak 
when  he  left  her  at  the  outskirts  of  the  en- 
campment, and  skulked  off  into  the  dense 
forest.  The  next  night  she  was  true  to  her 
promise,  and  met  him,  and  they  reclimbed 
the  rocky  mountain,  and  marveled  at  the 
comet,  and  became  loving  to  one  another  off 
there  by  themselves  on  that  remote  pinnacle 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


of  the  world.  The  stranger  did  not  reveal  his 
rank,  although  if  he  was  gifted  with  the 
power  of  second  sight  it  gave  him  a  title  of 
nobility,  but  even  at  that  he  must  have  been 
far  below  the  Princess  in  birth,  still  such  a 
difference  counted  for  nothing,  as  they  made 
love  and  let  the  hours  slip  by. 

"For  ten  nights  consecutively  they  met, 
each  one  seemingly  more  enchanting  than  its 
predecessors.  On  the  eleventh  night,  at  dusk, 
the  stranger  was  sitting  on  the  rock  by  the 
spring,  waiting  for  the  Princess  Flower  of 
Mirth,  anticipating  another  gladsome  session 
on  the  mountain  peak.  In  his  hand  he  held 
a  small  bunch  of  carefully  selected  wild- 
flowers,  the  only  tribute  he  could  bestow  upon 
his  beloved,  as  he  was  not  a  hunter.  He  had 
to  wait  longer  than  usual,  and  was  getting 
impatient,  when  he  heard  bursts  of  laughter 
on  the  path  leading  to  where  he  rested. 

"Pretty  soon  he  discerned  the  form  of  the 
Princess,  but  by  her  side  was  the  towering 
and  athletic  figure  of  an  Indian  youth, 
trimmed  and  tufted  with  elks'  teeth  and  eagle 
feathers,  betokening  his  high  rank.  Back  of 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  91 

the  couple,  at  a  respectful  distance,  marched 
two  aged  chiefs;  one  of  them  was  Golden 
Treasure,  and  the  other  was  evidently  the 
father  of  the  Indian  Prince.  Flower  of  Mirth 
and  her  companion  were  evidently  deeply  in- 
terested in  one  another,  for  they  continued 
to  laugh,  and  their  steps  were  light  and  joy- 
ous. When  they  reached  the  spring  the  stal- 
wart Prince  leaned  down  to  fill  a  gourd  full 
of  water,  and,  while  he  did  so,  the  Princess 
turned  her  head  away,  so  as  to  look  as  if  she 
did  not  see  the  stranger  rising  from  the 
nearby  rock,  with  the  bunch  of  flowers  in  his 
hand. 

"As  the  Prince  handed  'her  the  water,  she 
had  to  look  in  the  direction  of  the  stranger, 
who  stepped  forward  smilingly,  and  at- 
tempted to  give  her  the 'flowers.  As  he  held 
out  his  hand,  old  Golden  Treasure,  who  had 
come  close  beside  him,  dealt  him  a  terrible 
blow  on  the  side  of  his  head,  and  -he  fell  for- 
ward on  his  face  on  the  flat  slab  laid  out  be- 
fore the  spring.  As  he  struck  it  he  began 
to  change  quickly,  losing  all  semblance  of 
human  form,  while  the  terrified  quartet, 


92  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

Flower  of  Mirth,  her  father,  Golden  Treas- 
ure, and  her  new  lover,  My  Hills  and  Valleys, 
and  his  father,  the  old  chief,  Iron  Mountain, 
cowered  against  the  trees  and  vines  in  ab- 
ject terror. 

"Gradually  his  form  was  blended  into  a 
compact  mass,  which  then  began  to  elongate, 
and  assume  a  greenish  tint,  and  take  on 
masses  of  scales.  The  hair  fell  out  of  his 
head,  and  a  smooth  gleaming  scalp  sprouting 
horns,  and  a  rounded  jowl  with  fangs  and 
hateful  greenish-yellow  eyes  materialized. 
The  monster,  when  the  transformation  was 
complete,  rose  to  its  full  length,  spitting 
venom  in  every  direction. 

"This  was  too  much  for  the  stalwart  My 
Hills  and  Valleys;  he  leaped  at  the  reptile 
with  his  war  club,  but  before  he  could  strike 
a  blow,  it  had  turned,  and  quick  as  a  flash, 
squirmed  into  the  rocks  back  of  the  spring, 
from  which  the  crystalline  water  gurgled. 
As  it  vanished,  Flower  of  Mirth  fell  to  the 
earth  unconscious,  and  the  old  chiefs,  and 
My  Hills  and  Valleys,  seized  gourds  of  water 
to  dash  over  her  brow. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  93 

"As  they  dipped  up  the  water  the  smell 
was  unbearable,  and  Iron  Mountain,  with 
more  hardihood  than  the  rest,  touched  his 
cup  to  his  lips,  dropping  it  instantly  with  a 
shriek  of  disgust.  The  Indian  encampment 
was  aroused,  and  rushed  out  in  a  body,  light- 
ing their  way  to  the  spring  with  blazing  pine 
torches.  The  dazed  victims  of  the  unwhole- 
some tragedy  were  carried  back  to  camp, 
but  it  was  days  before  they  recovered  their 
senses. 

"When  old  Golden  Treasure  was  able  to 
move  about,  he  ordered  the  regal  encamp- 
ment moved  to  the  furthest  western  extrem- 
ity of  the  valley,  and  all  the  tents  and  bowers 
were  burnt.  My  Hills  and  Valleys,  after  the 
episode,  began  to  "cool  off"  in  his  lover-like 
propensities,  and  it  was  only  when  Chief 
Golden  Treasure  threatened  to  declare  war 
against  his  people,  that  his  father  induced 
him  to  go  ahead  with  the  ceremony,  which 
united  him  to  the  Princess  Flower  of  Mirth. 

"The  marriage  took  place  and  the  couple 
started  eastward,  but  were  ambushed  and 
cut  to  pieces  by  unknown  Indians,  directly 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


across  the  valley  from  the  fated  spring.  But 
despite  this  retribution  of  blood,  the  water 
never  regained  its  pristine  sweetness,  but 
seemed  to  grow  fouler  tasting  and  more  ill- 
smelling  as  the  years  went  by.  No  one  ever 
sees  a  snake  of  any  description  near  the  sul- 
phur spring,  as  they  all  feared  the  monstrous 
serpent  that  coiled  itself  within  the  rocky  re- 
cesses of  the  source  on  that  awful  night, 
when  My  Hills  and  Valleys,  and  Flower  of 
Mirth  plighted  their  troth. 

"Last  year,  when  Halley's  comet  ruled  the 
heavens,  some  boys  who  were  driving  home 
late  one  night  from  a  festival  at  Rosecrans, 
saw  what  looked  to  them  like  a  giant  saw-log 
lying  across  the  road  opposite  the  spring 
house.  They  got  out  of  their  wagon  to  roll 
it  away,  but  as  they  drew  near,  it  commenced 
to  squirm  and  vanished  with  a  mournful 
groan  in  the  tall  grass  and  bushes  by  the 
spring. 

"Perhaps  the  uncanny  stranger  had  hoped 
the  comet  would  bring  back  the  spirit  of 
Flower  of  Mirth,  but  as  a  writer  aptly  put  it 
in  deploring  that  each  happiness  exists  but 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  95 

once,  'the  first  fine  rapture  was  not  to  be 
caught  again,'  and  he  was  doomed  to  disap- 
pointment. It  cannot  be  believed  that  the 
perfidious  Indian  Princess  is  at  ease,  in  the 
Happy  Hunting  Ground." 

"Whew,"  said  Bill  Stanley,  "that's  a  hel- 
cramite  of  a  story;  let's  get  out  of  here 
double  quick."  He  climbed  into  the  driver's 
box,  cracking  his  long  whip,  and  the  bells 
on  the  ill-assorted  horses  were  soon  jingling 
as  they  hauled  the  green  and  white  wagons 
across  the  bridge  and  were  lost  to  view 
among  the  hemlocks. 


VII. 
THE  PANTHER  HIDE 


UT  in  the  White  Mountains, 
that  great,  irregular  gran- 
ite range  that  forms  part 
of  the  natural  boundary  be- 
tween Union  and  Snyder 
counties,  is  what  might  be 
styled  a  "Devil's  Den."  A 
huge  sink,  it  is,  covering  an 
area  of  possibly  five  hun- 
dred acres,  situated  on  the  summit  of  one  of 
the  highest  mountains.  Until  a  few  years 
ago  on  account  of  the  expense  of  removal, 
and  breakage,  the  original  timber  was  stand- 
ing in  this  natural  "reserve." 

The  trees,  mostly  white  pines,  did  not  grow 
very  close  together,  but  each  one  rose  from 
a  pile  of  loose,  moss-covered  rocks,  as  if  for- 
tified against  the  inroads  of  man.  There  were 
many  speculations  as  to  the  origin  of  this 
vast  sink.  Some  said  it  was  once  a  lake,  like 
Lewis's  Lake,  which  is  called  by  the  hotel- 

96 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  97 

men,  Eaglesmere.  Others  declared  it  to  be 
the  crater  of  an  extinct  volcano,  which 
sounded  most  plausible,  as  the  exact  centre 
was  depressed  and  full  of  fissures;  the  sides 
were  deeply  covered  with  broken  stones  vary- 
ing in  size  from  a  baseball  to  boulders  weigh- 
ing a  ton. 

These  loose  rocks  made  natural  caverns, 
and  were  sought  out  as  hiding  places  for  the 
wild  animals  of  the  neighboring  regions. 
Packs  of  wolves  were  driven  out  only  after 
great  effort  and  a  few  stragglers  still  make 
it  their  retreat. 

Bears,  foxes,  wild  cats,  catamounts,  pan- 
thers, raccoons,  fishers  and  wolverenes  were 
killed  there.  Eagles,  innumerable  hawks, 
ravens  and  buzzards  frequented  the  dizzy 
heights  of  the  pine  trees.  It  was  a  hard 
place  for  hunters  to  approach,  but  when  they 
did,  they  were  nearly  always  rewarded  with 
a  good  bag. 

A  season  never  passed  without  a  couple 
of  bears  being  trapped,  and  for  a  number  of 
years,  annually,  panthers  were  taken  out. 
A  period  of  ten  years  had  ensued  without 


98  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

a  panther  having  been  killed,  but  rumor 
was  persistent  of  one  being  seen  about  the 
"den."  One  winter  the  cold  weather  set  in 
before  Thanksgiving,  and  panther  tracks 
were  noticed  in  every  direction. 

None  of  the  settlers  in  the  fertile  ravines, 
or  on  the  slopes  of  Jack's  mountains  to  the 
south  complained  of  losing  any  stock,  still  it 
was  an  uncomfortable  feeling  to  have  a  pan- 
ther wandering  about  so  close  to  the  farm 
houses.  As  winter  progressed  the  brute 
seemed  to  lose  his  shyness,  and  appeared  to 
about  every  unarmed  person  on  the  moun- 
tain. Children  coming  home  from  Sunday 
school  at  Troxelville,  would  see  it  lying  in 
the  road ;  it  would  show  its  deference  by  get- 
ting up  and  letting  them  pass.  Women,  whose 
husbands  were  out  hunting  or  cutting  logs, 
would  find  it  curled  up  in  the  manger  when 
they  went  to  the  stable  to  hunt  for  eggs.  It 
would  lie  still  until  they  left  the  barn,  then 
it  would  crawl  out  of  its  nest  and  start  for 
the  "tall  timber."  Men  in  buggies  and  wagons 
would  see  it  crouched  on  rocks  or  logs  by  the 
roadside,  but  it  never  stirred  a  muscle  until 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


they  were  safely  out  of  sight.  No  one  with 
a  rifle,  or  even  a  revolver,  could  see  it;  it 
seemed  to  have  a  scent  which  was  trained  to 
the  smell  of  gun  barrels  and  powder. 

Out  of  a  hundred  persons  who  had  met 
with  it,  and  a  hundred  more  whose  premises 
it  had  visited,  not  a  soul  could  say  that  it  had 
acted  towards  them  and  their  property  other 
than  in  a  "genteel"  manner.  In  one  of  the 
loneliest  hollows,  a  young  hunter  named 
Johnny  Gorman,  had  made  his  home  for  sev- 
eral years.  He  lumbered  a  little,  cleared  a 
few  acres  in  his  spare  time,  and  built  a  fair 
sized  house.  It  looked  like  a  layer-cake,  it 
had  so  many  different  kinds  and  sizes  of  lum- 
ber in  its  construction.  The  mountaineers 
called  it  "the  house  of  many  colors."  When 
he  got  it  finished  he  began  to  feel  lonely,  so 
his  fancy  rested  upon  pretty  Mildred  Huey, 
the  daughter  of  a  farmer  who  lived  near  the 
old  distillery  in  the  Middle  Creek  Valley.  . 

Johnny  was  a  handsome  fellow,  with  clear 
cut  features,  a  good  nose,  and  a  square,  de- 
termined chin;  there  was  nothing  against 
him  on  that  score — but  he  was  somehow  ac- 


100  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

counted  shiftless.  His  life  in  the  mountains 
and  his  hunting  and  fishing  exploits  gave 
color  to  that  reputation.  Mildred  was  sent 
to  an  aunt  in  Lock  Haven,  considered  a  vast 
distance  from  Troxelville,  and  her  parents 
breathed  contentedly  for  a  time.  Johnny,  so 
as  not  to  attract  notice,  left  his  horse  at 
Glen  Iron,  and  walked  to  Lock  Haven,  met 
the  girl;  they  took  out  a  license,  and  were 
married. 

She  told  her  aunt  to  write  the  folks  what 
she  had  done,  then  she  returned  with  her 
husband  to  his  many-colored  house  in  the 
mountains.  On  the  drive  out  from  Glen 
Iron,  where  they  had  come  by  train,  while 
lying  in  Johnny's  arms,  she  confided  to  him 
that  her  family  were  "hanted,"  that  is  they 
were  followed  by  ghosts,  and  he  must  not  be 
surprised  if  he  saw  some  around  their  new 
home.  The  bridegroom  laughed  heartily;  he 
did  not  believe  in  any  such  thing ;  ghosts  were 
played  out ;  they  belonged  only  to  old  people. 

The  horse  was  pulling  up  a  steep  pitch  in 
the  road,  when  all  at  once  he  stopped,  and 
began  to  back  down  hill.  It  was  not  quite 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  101 

dark,  so  the  keen-eyed  woodsman  looked 
ahead  for  the  trouble  before  he  even  began 
to  urge  the  animal  forward.  To  his  sur- 
prise, he  saw  a  monster  panther  sitting  on 
its  haunches  in  the  road  on  the  summit  of  the 
rise.  He  forgot  about  the  dangers  of  a  horse 
backing  a  buggy  down  a  steep  hill,  yanked 
out  his  revolver,  and  fired  four  shots  at  the 
impertinent  brute.  It  never  stirred,  his  usu- 
ally true  aim  had  gone  amiss.  Then  the  buggy 
struck  a  rock  and  overturned,  and  Johnny, 
Mildred,  her  suit  case,  the  cushions  and  robes 
were  in  a  tangled  mass  among  the  huckle- 
berry bushes. 

Luckily  the  horse  did  not  try  to  run,  and 
nobody  was  hurt.  One  wheel  was,  however, 
irretrievably  dished,  so  they  rigged  a  pole 
to  keep  the  buggy  steady,  threw  the  suit  case 
aboard,  and  the  newly-married  couple  walked 
the  balance  of  the  distance.  The  panther 
had  disappeared  while  they  were  repairing 
the  turnout,  so  they  saw  no  more  of  it  until 
after  they  got  into  the  house  and  had  retired. 

The  night  was  cold  and  frosty;  there  was 
a  half -formed  moon.  They  had  barely  settled 


102  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

in  the  four-poster,  when  the  most  hideous 
screaming  was  heard  in  the  garden.  They 
looked  out,  and  beheld  the  panther  crowded 
in  the  lea  of  the  paling  fence,  howling  at  the 
moon  like  a  sentimental  watch  dog.  Johnny 
called  to  his  hounds,  but  they  were  strangely 
apathetic.  He  struck  a  light,  and  loaded  his 
new  Savage  rifle,  model  of  1899,  and  took 
careful  aim  at  the  beast,  which  lay  less  than 
fifty  feet  away.  The  shots  rang  out,  but  in- 
stead of  a  dead  panther,  there  was  no  pan- 
ther at  all. 

"Were  we  dreaming,  Mildred?"  said 
Johnny,  after  he  had  looked  in  vain  for  a 
bleeding  carcass.  He  climbed  into  his  cordu- 
roy trousers  and  went  into  the  garden.  Mil- 
dred, a  pretty  picture  of  fright  and  inno- 
cence, stood  inside  the  half-closed  door  call- 
ing to  her  beloved  not  to  run  any  chances. 
He  saw  the  spot  where  the  animal  had  laid, 
but  it  had  evidently  cleared  the  palings  with 
one  bound.  He  went  around  to  the  kennel, 
only  to  find  both  dogs  sound  asleep.  He 
roused  them,  and  gave  them  a  clubbing,  but 
the  poor  beasts  never  knew  what  it  was  for. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  103 

He  returned  to  the  house  and  the  balance  of 
the  night  was  spent  in  peace  and  comfort. 

The  next  night  no  panther  was  about,  and 
the  day  after  that  Johnny  took  his  horse  to 
go  to  Glen  Iron  to  make  some  purchases. 
Mildred,  who  was  washing,  said  she  didn't 
mind  his  absence  for  a  few  hours.  About 
noon  she  fancied  he  ought  to  be  back,  so  she 
looked  out  of  the  front  door.  Outside  the 
gate  lay  the  panther  sound  asleep.  She  hur- 
ried to  the  back  of  the  house,  and  called  the 
dogs,  but  this  time  they  were  among  the  miss- 
ing. She  didn't  know  much  about  the  use 
of  firearms,  but  not  being  lacking  in  courage, 
she  seized  Johnny's  rifle,  which  was  loaded, 
locked  the  door,  and  took  aim  through  the 
open  window.  The  bullet  went  through  one 
of  the  palings  of  the  gate,  but  the  panther, 
unscathed,  got  up,  stretched  himself,  and 
sauntered  away. 

Less  than  five  minutes  later  her  husband 
appeared.  He  had  heard  the  shot,  and  guessed 
what  it  meant.  He  would  have  doubted  that 
she  had  actually  seen  the  animal  were  it  not 
for  the  impression  of  its  body  in  the  mud. 


104  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

That  night  there  was  nothing  unusual,  but 
the  one  following,  they  heard,  but  did  not  see 
the  intruder.  The  next  morning  they  started 
for  Glen  Iron  in  the  buggy,  meeting  Adam 
Straub,  an  old-time  hunter,  on  the  road. 

"I'm  on  my  way  to  the  'sink,'  "  he  told 
them,  as  he  held  up  his  rifle  proudly.  "I've 
set  a  trap  for  that  panther  that  comes 
through  this  country  every  winter — he's 
bolder  than  ever  this  year.  This  is  the  tenth 
year  I've  been  on  his  trail,  but  I  sort  of  feel 
this  year  he'll  bite  the  dust." 

"We  were  just  going  after  you,"  said 
Johnny,  "that  panther's  not  in  the  'sink,'  at 
present,  his  headquarters  are  around  our 
house — this  is  my  wife  I  just  married," 
pointing  proudly  to  the  pretty  looking  black- 
eyed  girl  by  his  side. 

"At  your  house,  that  damned  panther ;  he's 
got  an  awful  nerve.  Why  can't  you,  after 
all  the  bears  you've  finished,  take  him  into 
camp?" 

"I've  shot  at  him  a  dozen  times,"  said 
Johnny  sheepishly,  "but  I  think  the  brute's 
bewitched,  I  can't  hit  him." 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  105 

"Can  I  spend  the  night  at  your  place?" 
asked  old  Straub. 

"Cert,"  said  Johnny,  "we'll  turn  around, 
and  this  afternoon  we  can  lay  our  plans,  and 
if  we  two  don't  get  him  in  the  next  forty- 
eight  hours  we'll  know  the  reason  why." 

They  drove  back  to  the  house  of  many  col- 
ors, with  old  Adam  tramping  along  behind. 
They  had  a  jolly  time  arranging  the  cam- 
paign, and  at  bedtime  the  old  hunter  was  as- 
signed to  the  room  adjoining  the  bridal  cham- 
ber. The  moon  was  nearly  full,  and  its  soft 
light  mellowed  the  garden,  the  picket  fence, 
the  stumps,  the  field  of  burnt  saplings  be- 
yond, the  gaunt  yellow  pines  along  the  edges 
of  the  clearing. 

At  midnight  a  scream  like  a  woman  in 
agony  was  heard  among  the  pines.  It  grew 
nearer  and  nearer,  and  Johnny  and  old  Adam 
were  at  the  windows  with  rifles  ready.  Out 
of  a  thicket  of  chestnut  sprouts  a  dusky  form 
appeared,  seemingly  magnified  fourfold  by 
the  moonlight.  It  paused  and  glared  at  the 
determined  men  in  the  windows  of  the  house 
across  the  lane.  The  rapid  click-bang-bang 


106  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

of  two  rifles  resounded  on  the  frosty  night, 
but  the  panther  remained  rigid  until  the  last 
cartridge  was  spent,  and  calmly  turned 
around  and  retreated. 

"Young  man,"  called  old  Adam  through  the 
partition,  "that's  no  panther  we've  been  fol- 
lowing, it's  a  deil;  no  wonder  he  couldn't  be 
trapped.  Does  that  wife  of  yours  come  from 
a  'hanted'  family?  If  she  does,  it  explains 
why  the  varmint  is  making  a  specialty  of 
parading  around  your  premises." 

"She  sure  does  come  from  a  'spooked'  fam- 
ily," answered  Johnny.  Mildred  raised  up 
in  bed  and  looked  at  him  wistfully  as  if  she 
wondered  he  would  love  her  less  for  it.  "Go 
to  sleep  now,"  called  old  Adam.  "I'll  fix  that 
panther  in  the  morning.  I  can  lay  any  spook 
or  witch  in  the  country.  There's  not  one 
of  them  can  stand  up  against  me.  Good  night, 
everybody." 

Johnny  could  hear  the  "click"  as  he  turned 
out  his  lamp,  and  climbed  into  his  couch. 
About  daylight  the  old  hunter  struck  out  for 
Glen  Iron,  but  in  the  early  afternoon  he  was 
back  carrying  several  bundles.  These  in- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  107 

eluded  a  plumber's  torch  and  a  cartridge 
mold.  He  asked  Johnny  for  his  cartridge 
box  and  took  several  of  them,  prying  out  the 
leaden  tips.  Then  he  melted  three  silver  dol- 
lars, and  put  the  metal  in  the  mold.  When 
they  had  cooled  off,  he  placed  the  silver  tips 
in  the  cartridges  from  which  he  had  removed 
the  lead. 

"Tonight  that  hex,  or  panther,  or  whatever 
it  is  will  die,"  he  solemnly  declared  as  he 
loaded  the  rifle  with  the  silver  bullets.  The 
winter  moon  shone  through  the  frost-laden, 
vapory  atmosphere  just  as  it  did  the  night 
before,  the  gaunt  yellow  pines  with  their  up- 
lifted branches  fringed  the  sky-line  at  the 
edge  of  the  clearing. 

Johnny  and  Mildred  seated  themselves  by 
the  window  of  the  room  on  a  heavy  trunk, 
while  old  Adam  drew  his  bed  to  the  window 
of  his  room  and  awaited  developments.  At 
midnight  the  first  faint  cries  of  the  panther 
echoed  from  the  ravine  behind  the  pines. 
Closer  and  closer  it  came,  roaring  like  a 
lion  when  it  reached  the  slashings,  descend- 
ing to  a  guttural  growl  as  its  head  emerged 


108  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

by  the  edge  of  the  lane.  Adam  Straub,  lying 
across  his  couch,  took  careful  aim,  "crack- 
bang-bang"  went  the  rifle,  and  with  a  cry 
intensely  human,  the  panther  sprang  twenty 
feet  in  the  air,  and  lay  quivering  in  the 
middle  of  the  road. 

Adam  carrying  the  rifle,  and  Johnny  with 
his  hunting  knife  were  by  his  side  in  a  min- 
ute, but  he  was  stiff  and  dead,  so  they  pro- 
ceeded to  skin  him.  The  animal  was  a  male, 
and  measured  by  Mildred's  tape  eleven  and 
a  half  feet  from  tip  to  tip.  There  was  no 
sleep  for  any  of  the  household  that  night. 

At  dawn,  the  ground  being  frozen  hard, 
the  flayed  carcass  was  buried  in  a  hole  that 
had  been  started  for  a  well,  and  rocks  and 
stumps  were  thrown  in  to  fill  it.  After 
breakfast  the  hide  was  put  in  the  wagon,  and 
the  trio  drove  to  Middleburg  to  "show  off" 
the  unusual  trophy.  The  court-house  was 
closed,  so  they  could  not  claim  a  bounty  that 
afternoon  but  they  exhibited  the  hide  on  the 
steps  of  the  Jefferson  hotel  across  the  way 
where  it  was  viewed  by  hundreds  of  people. 

Next  morning  there  was  some  question 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  109 

about  paying  the  bounty,  as  none  had  been 
paid  on  panthers  in  fifteen  years,  and  the 
treasurer  wanted  them  to  leave  the  hide  with 
him  until  he  could  get  an  opinion  from  the 
county  solicitor.  Johnny  refused,  and  took 
it  to  the  tannery,  to  have  it  made  into  a  rug. 
In  due  course  of  time  he  received  word  it  was 
finished,  so  he  came  after  it,  taking  it  again 
to  the  court-house.  The  county  treasurer 
said  he  doubted  if  any  bounty  could  be  paid 
on  a  tanned  hide,  which  made  Johnny  angry, 
and  he  threw  it  into  the  wagon  box  and 
started  for  the  White  Mountains.  At  his 
home  it  was  admired  by  the  mountaineers 
for  a  few  days,  then  he  put  it  for  safe 
keeping  on  a  trestle  in  the  garret ;  it  was  too 
valuable  to  be  scuffed  about  as  a  rug.  One 
thing  was  lacking,  the  tanner  had  omitted  to 
provide  it  with  glass  eyes. 

Time  passed,  the  "panther  scare"  was  for- 
gotten, and  another  autumn  was  at  hand. 
One  October  night  Johnny  and  Mildred  were 
returning  from  a  call  at  the  home  of  a  couple 
named  Schultz  who  had  started  to  build  a 
house  and  clear  some  land  about  two  miles 


110  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

down  the  hollow.  Half-way  home  they  heard 
a  cracking  of  dry  underbrush.  The  moon's 
rays  giving  them  a  clear  vision,  they  were 
horrified  to  see  a  hideous  object  bob  out  of 
the  bushes  and  cross  the  path.  It  was  the 
hide  of  a  panther  flapping  along  on  some  dis- 
jointed carriers,  and  it  looked  all  the  world 
like  a  manikin  propelled  by  a  string.  They 
might  have  thought  it  a  joke,  for  Hallowe'en 
was  near,  had  not  the  thing  let  out  a  pitiful 
squall  and  besides  Johnny  had  in  his  vest 
pocket  the  key  to  the  Yale  lock  of  the  attic 
door  where  the  hide  was  kept. 

It  disappeared  in  a  thicket  of  young  hem- 
locks and  the  dismayed  couple  hurried  to 
their  home.  They  went  to  the  garret  find- 
ing the  lock  untouched,  but  on  opening  the 
door  saw  the  hide  was  not  to  be  found.  In 
the  morning,  fearing  they  had  been  dream- 
ing- in  the  moonlit  woods,  they  re-opened  the 
p.ttic,  but  this  time  the  hide  lay  in  the  same 
position  across  the  trestle  as  it  had  been 
placed  there  several  months  before.  That 
night  they  were  awakened  by  the  awful  bark- 
ing of  the  dogs,  and  from  the  window  they 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  111 

could  see  them  in  bitter  conflict  with  a  hor- 
rible unsteady  monster  without  eyes  in  the 
corner  of  the  yard.  The  dogs  were  pretty 
well  scarred  when  they  examined  them  the 
next  morning,  but  to  convince  themselves, 
Johnny  and  Mildred  went  to  the  garret  and 
examined  the  hide.  It  had  been  tanned 
with  the  skull  and  teeth  left  in,  and  the  white 
fangs  were  covered  with  fresh  blood. 

Brave  man  that  he  was,  Johnny  dropped 
the  hide,  and  with  Mildred  rushed  from  the 
garret.  They  harnessed  the  horse,  and  drove 
as  fast  as  they  could  to  find  old  Adam 
Straub.  The  good  old  man  was  getting  sup- 
per when  they  reached  his  humble  cabin  in 
the  foothills  near  the  old  furnace,  but  he  lis- 
tened with  interest  to  the  recital. 

"It  was  very  dumb  of  me  not  to  have 
thought  of  that,"  he  answered  slowly.  "Spend 
the  night  with  me,  and  tomorrow  go  back  and 
bury  that  panther  hide  in  the  same  pit  with 
the  carcass;  then  you  will  have  laid  this 
ghost  for  good  and  all.  They  tell  me,"  he 
went  on,  "some  Indian  that  was  killed  by  one 
of  your  wife's  ancestors  took  on  a  panther's 


112  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

form,  and  that  is  the  creature  which  has  been 
seen  in  these  mountains  for  so  many  years. 
I  don't  reckon  there's  been  a  real  panther  in 
Snyder  county  since  1885,  when  they  paid 
bounty  on  one  at  Middleburg.  If  the  silver 
in  my  shell  had  been  pure,  you  wouldn't 
needed  to  have  buried  the  hide,  but  it  wasn't 
pure,  so  it's  worth  any  trouble  to  get  rid  of 
such  a  pest." 

Johnny  and  Mildred  drove  leisurely  back 
to  the  house  of  many  colors,  walked  boldly 
up  the  attic  stairs,  carried  down  the  great, 
smooth,  tawney  hide.  It  seemed  a  pity  to 
lose  it,  but  they  threw  it  in  the  pit  on  top  of 
the  disintegrated  carcass.  Johnny  filled  the 
hole  solidly  with  rocks  and  stumps,  and  after 
a  lapse  of  ten  years  the  couple  have  never 
been  disturbed  by  its  presence. 


VIII. 
MARSH  MARIGOLD 


E  were  driving,  one  afternoon 
in  July,  through  the  east 
end  of  Brush  Valley,  and 
Bonnie  Dundee,  our  faith- 
ful horse,  trotted  at  the 
proper  gait  to  enable  us  to 
take  in  all  the  sights  of  this 
quaint,  out  of  the  world 
region.  I  had  not  been  this 
way  for  five  years,  and  every  mile  or  so 
would  decry  some  act  of  vandalism  perpe- 
trated since  my  former  visits;  a  giant  tree 
felled  here,  an  old  log  cabin  razed  there,  and 
a  gaping  quarry  opened  on  a  quiet  hill-side 
over  yonder. 

My  companion,  better  versed  than  I  in  the 
vagaries  of  the  local  temperament,  was  ex- 
cusing the  desecrations — "that  tree  shaded 
the  field,"  "that  old  house  was  tumbling 
down,"  "the  poor  man  needed  the  money 
and  had  to  begin  quarrying,"  or  "the  price 

113 


114  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

of  timber  tempted  the  widow,"  and  so  on, 
putting  a  less  uncomplimentary  construction 
on  their  acts.  When  we  came  within  a  mile 
of  Livonia  I  began  to  look  ahead  along  the 
straight  road  to  catch  sight  of  the  two  huge 
wild  cherry  trees,  which  stood  by  the  road 
below  Moses  Smitgall's  barn.  But  I  could 
only  see  one  tree,  and  as  we  drew  near,  the 
high-cut  stump  showed  where  the  other  had 
recently  stood. 

"What  a  terrible  shame  to  have  slashed 
down  one  of  Francis  Penn's  Betrothal  Trees," 
I  cried  out  in  righteous  indignation.  "That 
is  the  worst  thing  we  have  seen  on  the  entire 
trip.  I  don't  see  what  harm  it  could  have 
done  if  left  standing." 

My  companion  was  equally  upset  by  what 
was  a  real  act  of  vandalism,  and  after  we 
passed  Stover's  and  started  up  the  mountain 
to  cross  into  Sugar  Valley,  I  went  over  the 
story  of  the  Betrothal  Tree,  Francis  Penn, 
and  the  beautiful  Indian  maid,  Marsh  Mari- 
gold. 

About  the  middle  of  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury, Richard  Penn,  the  Proprietary  of  the 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  115 

Province  of  Pennsylvania,  had  sent  a  number 
of  young  surveyors  into  the  central  part  of 
his  domain  to  lay  out  and  draw  maps  of  the 
various  parcels  of  land  which  were  to  be 
turned  over  to  desirable  settlers.  Among 
them  was  one  young  man,  who,  by  birth  and 
talents,  was  clearly  above  his  fellows.  He 
was  Francis  Penn,  son  of  a  full  cousin  of  the 
Proprietor,  and  a  graduate  of  Oxford  and 
holder  of  degrees  from  two  German  univer- 
sities. His  early  philosophical  bent  had  led 
him  into  religious  speculation,  and  beginning 
as  a  member  of  the  Church  of  England  he 
swung  into  deism,  then  adopted  the  beliefs  of 
the  Friends  like  his  immortal  relative. 

In  this  last  affiliation  he  was  perfectly 
happy  and  the  staid  Quakers  appeared  proud 
to  own  him  as  one  of  their  number.  Despite 
his  life  of  study  and  religious  experience,  he 
had  led  a  stormy  career,  as  far  as  went 
affairs  of  the  heart,  and  that  was  the  sole  rea- 
son of  his  presence  in  the  wilds  of  Pennsyl- 
vania. He  had  been  betrothed  to  one  of  the 
most  charming  young  girls  in  England,  Lady 
Elizabeth  Vane-Tempest,  who  favored  him 


116  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

ahead  of  a  score  of  other  acceptable  suitors. 

All  seemed  to  go  smoothly  with  the  young 
couple  until  two  weeks  before  the  wedding, 
when  her  ladyship  disappeared.  At  the  same 
time  a  Dutchman,  short,  and  ill-favored,  who 
served  in  a  dragoon  regiment  quartered  near 
her  father's  town  house,  dropped  out  of 
sight.  They  were  apprehended  together  on 
the  point  of  embarking  for  Holland  and  the 
fellow  jumped  into  the  channel  to  save  his 
neck,  and  escaped.  The  girl  was  brought 
home,  but  Francis  Penn  never  noticed  her 
existence  again. 

As  a  vision  of  blonde  loveliness  she  was 
unexcelled,  her  exquisite  coloring  and  fea- 
tures being  partially  preserved  in  an  unfin- 
ished painting  by  Romney  which  is  some- 
times handed  out  of  the  store-room  for  the 
edification  of  art  critics  at  the  ancestral  halls 
of  her  family  in  Surrey. 

But  Penn  was  to  have  his  revenge.  One 
night  on  Fleet  Street  he  was  jostled  by  a 
low-browed  villain  in  sailor  clothes,  who,  see- 
ing the  young  Quaker  in  the  garb  of  his 
faith  and  doubtless  unarmed,  thought  he 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  117 

could  antagonize  him,  and  in  the  scuffle 
knife  him  easily.  But  the  youthful  Quaker 
was  not  so  easy,  and  met  the  sailor's  jostle 
with  a  powerful  wrench,  which  sent  him  reel- 
ing into  an  iron  railing  where  he  ran  a  picket 
through  his  eye  into  his  brain,  dying  in  the 
gutter  in  a  few  minutes.  As  Penn  bent  over 
the  expiring  wretch  he  recognized  the  fea- 
tures of  the  Dutch  dragoon  who  had  eloped 
and  abandoned  the  beautiful  Lady  Elizabeth 
Vane-Tempest. 

After  that  disagreeable  incident  he  sailed 
for  Pennsylvania,  where  he  was  assigned  to 
the  surveying  corps,  and  made  rapid  progress 
with  his  work.  His  appearance  so  closely 
resembled  that  of  William  Penn  that  he  be- 
came a  prime  favorite  with  the  Indians.  The 
older  chiefs  declared  it  was  the  Apostle  of 
Brotherly  Love  come  back  to  life  again,  and 
he  was  often  sent  into  turbulent  localities  to 
restore  tranquility  by  his  presence.  He  re- 
fused many  offers  of  advancement,  saying 
that  he  would  only  remain  temporarily  in  the 
province  and  could  only  hold  a  position  from 


118  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

which  his  resignation  at  any  day  would  be 
of  no  moment. 

The  government  had  been  having  consid- 
erable trouble  with  a  brave  called  Rock  Pine, 
whose  headquarters  were  the  entire  eastern 
part  of  what  is  now  Brush  Valley.  He  had 
ambushed  and  slaughtered  one  surveyor,  and 
the  provincial  authorities  were  undecided  as 
to  how  to  adjust  the  case.  Francis  Penn  was 
suggested,  so  the  young  man,  accompanied 
by  a  body-guard  of  five  friendly  redskins,  set 
out  for  an  interview  with  the  recalcitrant 
warrior.  When  they  reached  his  tent,  they 
found  the  old  fellow  sitting  on  a  panther's 
hide,  smoking.  At  first  he  refused  to  look 
up,  but  when  he  heard  two  of  the  body  guards 
laugh  at  some  witty  remark  of  their  white 
leader,  he  raised  his  eyes.  Having  met 
William  Penn  years  before  at  Skakamaxon 
and  noting  the  remarkable  likeness,  he  was 
on  his  feet  in  an  instant,  apologizing  as  he 
termed  it  for  the  "rudeness  of  an  old,  half- 
blind  hunter."  Within  an  hour  he  granted 
all  the  demands  of  the  proprietary  establish- 
ment and  offered  to  indemnify  the  family,  if 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  119 

there  were  any,  of  the  dead  surveyor  whom 
he  acknowledged  was  slain  by  some  of  his 
tribesmen.  He  invited  the  party  to  remain 
a  month  with  him;  they  elected  to  remain 
over  night. 

At  dinner  time  young  Penn  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  old  Rock  Pine's  daughter 
Marsh  Marigold,  and  he  remained  the  month. 
Our  general  idea  of  Indian  Maidens  comes 
from  pictures  of  flatfaced  Sioux  and  from  the 
hosts  of  underbred,  and  mixed  blooded 
squaws  who  follow  Wild  West  shows  or  at- 
tend government  schools.  The  Indian  girls 
of  royal  blood,  long  ago,  especially  the  Sene- 
cas,  were  noted  for  their  beauty  and  not  a 
few  Europeans  fell  victims  to  their  charms. 

In  Virginia  it  was  the  same  way.  Indian 
princesses  were  courted,  and  Pocahontas  was 
feted  and  admired  when  her  English  hus- 
band took  her  to  his  old  home. 

"In  the  first  place  she  (Marsh  Marigold) 
was  not  copper  colored,  her  complexion  was 
white,  but  in  cold  weather  a  little  red  showed 
in  it.  Her  eyes  were  almost  black,  deeply  set 
and  expressive,  with  long  black  lashes  and 


120  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

narrow  arched  brows.  Her  lips  were  the  color 
of  corals  and  just  full  enough  to  show  that 
her  nature  abounded  with  love.  Her  teeth 
were  a  most  attractive  feature;  they  were 
small,  luminous  like  pearls,  and  set  in  even 
rows.  She  was  tall  rather  than  short,  erect, 
and  slender,  her  dark  hair  was  soft  and  on 
damp  days  was  inclined  to  curl.  Her  nose 
was  just  a  trifle  aquiline,  but  the  nostrils 
were  well-moulded,  open.  The  nose  was  not 
straight,  but  was  a  little  more  pronounced  on 
the  left  side  than  on  the  right.  This  tripled 
her  beauty,  for  she  was  one  person  on  the 
right  side,  another  full  face,  a  third  on  the 
left  side,  all  equally  radiantly  lovely.  Her 
manners  were  open  and  kindly,  and  she  gave 
the  impression  of  frankness  and  honor." 

We  would  be  at  a  loss  to  present  such  a 
detailed  description  of  the  personal  appear- 
ance of  this  now  almost  forgotten  Indian  girl, 
but  for  the  discovery  ten  years  ago,  of  Fran- 
cis Penn's  journal  in  an  old  chest  in  the  ruins 
of  Fort  Augusta  at  Sunbury,  from  which  the 
above  is  quoted,  but  that  is  another  story. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  121 

Penn  took  to  her  at  once,  while  she  seemed 
to  seek  his  society.  The  first  evening  they 
violated  all  Indian  customs  by  taking  a  long 
walk  together  to  the  waterfall  half-way  up 
the  mountain  above  Livonia  which  still 
splashes  down  over  the  rocks,  but  in  dimin- 
ished quantities.  Next  day  the  young  Eng- 
lishman announced  he  would  remain  in  the 
valley  for  some  days  in  order  to  complete 
some  elaborate  maps.  Everybody  seemed 
pleased,  and  the  courtship  apparently  ad- 
vanced with  each  evening. 

Having  had  troubles  of  his  own,  Penn  hesi- 
tated about  asking  Marsh  Marigold  if  she 
had  any  other  lover.  If  he  had  he  might  have 
learned  a  sad  story.  A  young  redskin  named 
Leaning  Birch  courted  her,  but  his  shiftless- 
ness  had  estranged  old  Rock  Pine,  and  he  had 
ordered  the  youth  driven  from  the  camp.  The 
couple  had  met  clandestinely  in  the  forests 
several  times,  but  the  old  warrior  became 
wise  to  this,  and  threatened  Leaning  Birch 
with  being  burned  at  the  stake  if  captured. 
The  shiftless  Indian  apparently  skipped  the 
country  and  the  romance  ostensibly  ended. 


122  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

At  the  end  of  a  month  Francis  Penn  and 
Marsh  Marigold  decided  to  marry,  and  so  in- 
formed old  Rock  Pine.  Had  it  been  any  other 
white  man  he  would  probably  have  been  tom- 
ahawked on  the  spot, but  William  Penn's  rela- 
tive and  likeness  was  too  desirable  a  person- 
age, and  he  gave  the  young  couple  his  fondest 
blessings.  The  betrothal  took  place  with  full 
ceremonial,  and  in  honor  of  the  occasion  Penn 
and  his  promised  bride  each  planted  a  young 
wild  cherry  tree  as  a  token  that  "the  early 
blossoming  of  their  love  would  bear  fruit  by 
a  speedy  marriage." 

Then  Penn's  relative  bade  au  revoir  to  the 
adorable  Marsh  Marigold,  to  Rock  Pine,  and 
all  the  other  members  of  the  tribe,  and 
started  with  his  body  guard  for  Philadelphia 
to  make  arrangements  for  the  wedding  and 
embarking  for  England.  He  was  to  return 
in  about  a  month.  Marsh  Marigold,  the  beau- 
tiful, pined  for  days  after  he  had  gone,  and 
often  walked  to  the  waterfall  alone,  and  sat 
by  the  swift  torrent  for  hours  thinking  of 
her  absent  lover.  Francis  Penn  was  not  less 
ardent,  for  he  sent  back  swift  Indian  runners 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  123 

every  few  days  while  on  his  journey  with 
messages  protesting  his  love  and  eternal  de- 
votion. 

One  morning  while  the  girl  was  seated  by 
the  waterfall,  meditating  and  despondent, 
she  heard  the  patter  of  moccasined  feet  on 
the  pine  needles.  She  looked  around,  and  to 
her  dismay,  she  saw  the  figure  of  Leaning 
Birch.  The  shiftless  and  discarded  lover 
looked  the  picture  of  misery.  He  was  lame, 
had  lost  one  eye,  and  the  left  side  of  his 
mouth  was  cut  back  clear  to  his  ear,  and  every 
tooth  on  that  side  was  missing.  Had  he 
looked  his  natural  self  she  would  have 
scorned  him,  but  his  mutilated  face  aroused 
her  pity,  and  she  listened  to  his  addresses. 
He  sat  down  beside  her,  and  soon  was  pour- 
ing out  his  tale  of  woe.  He  had  been  cap- 
tured and  sentenced  to  death  down  country, 
had  escaped,  been  captured  by  another  tribe, 
but  had  broken  loose  from  his  captors  al- 
though not  without  being  pounded,  gouged, 
and  slashed  after  the  manner  indicated  by 
his  appearance. 


124  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

Then  Marsh  Marigold  told  her  story,  how 
she  had  met  Francis  Penn,  the  distinguished 
young  Englishman,  who  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her;  he  was  even  now  on  his  way  back 
from  Philadelphia  to  make  her  his  wife  and 
take  her  to  preside  over  his  estates  in  Eng- 
land. The  crafty  ex-lover  saw  his  opening, 
and  asked  her  if  she  thought  she  could  leave 
her  beloved  mountains,  would  she  be  happy 
so  far  from  home,  among  a  strange  people, 
and  was  it  not  a  big  risk  for  so  young  a  girl 
to  take?  This  set  the  maiden  to  thinking, 
and  after  the  five  hours  talk  she  went  back  to 
her  father  nursing  a  new  sorrow.  Though 
she  had  made  no  appointment,  a  strange  in- 
stinct drew  her  back  to  the  waterfall  next 
day.  Leaning  Birch  joined  her,  and  that 
afternoon  when  she  returned  she  felt  that  her 
Indian  suitor  had  been  misjudged,  and  wasn't 
such  a  bad  fellow  after  all. 

After  the  third  meeting  she  decided  she 
would  never  go  to  England,  after  the  fourth 
she  would  run  away  to  the  north  with  Lean- 
ing Birch.  With  him  she  concocted  a  mes- 
sage to  Penn,  to  be  delivered  to  the  runner 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  125 

who  would  arrive  that  night  with  tidings  of 
the  young  suitor's  speedy  arrival.  She  was 
to  meet  Leaning  Birch  at  a  point  several 
miles  down  the  main  path  from  the  camp  and 
help  him  intercept  the  runner.  Behind  the 
broken  stump  of  a  tree  they  waited,  and  when 
the  breathless  runner  came  by,  Leaning 
Birch  sprang  forward  and  knocked  him 
senseless  with  a  heavy  staff.  When  the  un- 
fortunate messenger  "came  to"  Marsh  Mari- 
gold gave  him  her  message,  which  he  put 
in  his  belt,  and  Leaning  Birch  gagged  and 
tied  him  securely  to  the  stump. 

That  done  they  retraced  their  steps,  start- 
ing up  the  mountain  in  the  direction  of  Sugar 
Valley.  He  had  it  planned  that  they  would 
hide  in  the  Oriole  caves  in  Nippenose  Valley 
for  a  week  and  make  a  raft  in  the  under- 
ground current  and  float  out  to  the  Susque- 
hanna  river  and  then  gradually  work  their 
way  north  until  they  were  lost  from  possible 
pursuers  in  the  mazes  of  the  Black  Forest. 
But  they  had  not  gone  any  further  than  the 
waterfall  when  Marsh  Marigold  began  to 
change  her  mind  again.  First  she  walked 


126  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

along  silently,  paying  no  attention  to  the 
glowing  plans  for  the  future  as  outlined  by 
her  companion.  Then  she  summoned  cour- 
age and  told  him  she  did  not  love  him,  that 
she  adored  and  admired  the  personality  and 
character  of  Francis  Penn.  It  was  not  too 
late,  they  could  return  and  release  the  Indian 
runner,  and  he  could  have  time  to  get  away 
to  the  caves  before  Rock  Pine  learned  the 
story.  She  would  confess  all  to  her  fiance, 
and  she  knew  he  would  forgive  her. 

Leaning  Birch  listened  to  this  talk  with  ill- 
concealed  anger,  and  caught  her  by  the  arm 
as  if  to  drag  her  away  with  him.  She  swung 
herself  loose,  and  started  to  run  down  the 
rocky  path.  The  hideous  Indian  made  after 
her,  but  she  was  fleet  of  foot,  and  he  was 
lame.  She  seemed  to  be  gaining  on  him,  so 
he  lurched  forward  and  knocked  her  to  the 
earth  with  his  hickory  staff.  As  she  at- 
tempted to  rise  he  beat  her  down,  finally 
splitting  her  skull  with  a  final  savage  blow. 

The  Indian  maiden  died  with  the  name  of 
Francis  Penn  on  her  lips,  and  her  cowardly 
murderer  started  up  the  mountain  again. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  127 

When  he  reached  the  waterfall  he  attempted 
to  cross  the  creek,  but  his  lame  foot  slipped 
into  a  crevice  in  the  rocks,  which  held  him  as 
in  a  trap.  He  howled  and  cursed,  and  dragged 
and  tugged,  but  he  was  a  hopeless  captive. 
After  some  hours  he  drew  his  hunting  knife 
and  attempted  to  cut  off  his  foot,  but  when  he 
saw  the  blood  flowing  he  was  too  cowardly  to 
persist. 

At  daybreak  he  heard  the  sound  of  many 
footsteps  and  muffled  voices  drawing  nearer 
and  nearer.  Soon  to  his  horror  he  beheld 
Rock  Pine,  grim  and  menacing,  accompanied 
by  a  hundred  tribesmen  armed  for  battle, 
the  Indian  runner  with  his  head  bandaged, 
and  a  stalwart  figure  clad  in  black,  with  set 
face  ivory  white,  the  bereaved  Francis  Penn. 
As  they  approached  with  measured  tread, 
Leaning  Birch  wondered  what  his  fate  would 
be.  Most  probably  slow  torture  of  some  kind, 
he  reasoned,  but  he  was  quickly  put  out  of 
the  way  very  differently.  Out  of  the  funeral 
procession  the  Indian  runner  executed  one 
of  his  famous  leaps,  at  the  same  time  un- 
sheathing a  long,  thin  knife.  He  was  on  top 


128  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

of  the  murderer  as  quickly  as  an  eagle 
pounces  on  a  lamb,  and  cut  his  heart  out  be- 
fore anyone  could  utter  a  protest. 

With  screams  of  agony  the  fiend  yielded 
up  the  ghost,  and  died  with  Francis  Penn 
looking  him  full  in  the  face.  Turning  to  Rock 
Pine,  the  unfortunate  lover  said  quietly, 
"Bury  him  under  the  waterfall  so  that  the 
pure  rivulets  will  cleanse  his  evil  spirit."  A 
dozen  braves  lifted  out  the  great  flat  stones, 
and  the  reeking  body  of  Leaning  Birch 
minus  the  heart  which  the  Indian  runner 
hung  on  his  belt,  was  dropped  with  a  splash 
into  the  bottom  of  the  watery  cavity.  Then 
the  slabs  were  thrown  over  him,  and  the 
waterfall  went  tripping  its  way  as  before. 

In  the  afternoon  Marsh  Marigold  was  laid 
to  rest  between  the  Betrothal  Trees  and 
Francis  Penn  said  farewell  to  Rock  Pine, 
leaving  immediately  for  the  East,  never  to 
return.  He  fell  sick  at  Fort  Augusta,  where 
he  wrote  many  pages  of  his  journal,  which 
was  stolen  from  him  by  one  of  his  Indian  re- 
tainers the  night  before  he  set  out  from  there 
for  Philadelphia.  Strange  to  say  the  manu- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  129 

script  has  come  to  light  after  a  hundred  and 
fifty  years. 

As  for  Penn,  he  was  last  heard  of  in  India, 
where  he  is  said  to  have  died  of  a  pestilence 
about  17&5.  It  seems  a  pity  that  a  narrative 
like  this  must  revive  the  memory  of  such  a 
foul  monster  as  Leaning  Birch,  but  evil 
spirits  have  a  greater  knack  of  persisting 
than  good  ones.  It  may  be  satisfying  to  some 
to  think  that  his  soul  is  not  at  rest. 

Old  settlers  declare  that  every  year  on  the 
night  of  the  anniversary  of  the  crime  a  dis- 
torted being,  up  to  his  waist  in  water,  can 
be  seen  seated  in  the  bowl  of  the  waterfall. 
A  red  discharge  gushes  from  a  gaping  hole 
in  his  left  breast,  and  he  holds  his  hands  con- 
vulsively over  the  wound  as  if  to  try  and 
staunch  the  flow.  But  it  continues  to  pour 
forth,  and  mingles  with  the  eddies  and  whirls 
and  froth  of  the  pool.  Sometimes  when  the 
winds  are  high,  he  cries  out  sharply,  as  if  his 
caged  spirit  wanted  to  escape  into  the  storm. 
Always  on  the  day  after  particles  of  reddish 
substance  are  found  in  the  pool,  and  adhering 
to  the  rocks  of  the  stream  along  the  gorge. 


130  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

Doubters  say  it  means  there  is  a  deposit  of 
iron  ore  somewhere,  but  those  who  have  seen 
the  hideous  bather  know  it  is  the  soul's  blood 
of  his  eternal  expiation.  Maybe  with  the 
cutting  down  of  one  of  the  Betrothal  Trees 
the  spell  is  broken,  but  there  are  many  who 
believe  that  Leaning  Birch  will  appear  again 
this  September. 


IX. 


STORY  OP  THE  PICTURE  ROCKS 


ICTURE  ROCKS  as  the  name 
of  a  postoffice,  Picture 
Rocks  the  name  of  a  rail- 
road station  in  Lycoming 
county,  are  known  to  most 
everyone.  True  enough,  the 
rocks  are  to  be  seen,  but  it 
is  hard  for  the  most  imag- 
inative to  discern  how  they 
could  have  obtained  their  name.  The  sur- 
face, ripped  and  scarred  by  landslides,  quar- 
ries, the  running  of  logs  and  the  frosts  and 
thaws  of  years,  seem  too  uneven  to  have  ever 
displayed  an  artist's  handiwork. 

Many  declared  that  they  were  named  be- 
cause of  their  "picturesqueness,"  and  not 
from  any  portraits  or  signs  cut  or  painted  on 
their  face.  But  the  early  settlers  had  a  story, 
and  not  such  an  old  one,  either,  which  told 
of  a  day  when  the  great  rocks  which  rise 
from  the  base  to  the  summit  of  the  moun- 

131 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


tains  at  this  point,  were  as  smooth  as  modern 
blackboards  in  a  cross-roads  school  house. 

For  five  or  six  successive  centuries  the  In- 
dian chieftains  in  the  Loyalsock  and  Muncy 
Valleys  had  pictorial  records  of  their  great- 
est victories  painted  on  the  rocks.  The  In- 
dians were  adepts  at  discovering  and  mixing 
colors,  and  the  artistic  sense,  though  to  us 
seemingly  crude,  had  many  elements  of  dig- 
nity and  impressiveness.  In  later  years  one 
chief  had  attempted  to  have- the  pictures  cut 
and  not  painted  on  the  rocks,  but  the  strata 
was  too  soft  and  probably  started  the  disinte- 
gration that  was  followed  by  the  white  lum- 
bermen and  quarriers. 

It  is  difficult  to  assign  a  date  to  a  legend 
of  this  kind,  but  we  assume  that  it  was  about 
the  year  1760,  when  a  party  of  French  settlers 
from  Berks  county  found  their  way  into  the 
fertile  regions  around  the  Picture  Rocks. 
The  year  before,  Wolf's  Pathway,  a  noted 
Seneca  "King,"  had  crushed  a  serious  insur- 
rection among  his  tribesmen,  and  in  the 
skirmishes  and  battles — including  a  "canoe" 
battle — fought  at  night  on  the  Susquehanna, 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


near  what  is  now  Nippeno  Park,  over  a 
thousand  redskins  of  both  factions  were 
killed. 

It  was  the  wish  of  the  conquering  chieftain 
to  have  his  success  perpetuated  pictorially 
on  the  rocks,  so  he  commissioned  his  young 
cousin,  Fisher  Fox,  the  most  talented  Indian 
artist  in  the  entire  country  at  that  time,  to 
paint  the  historic  occurrence.  He  was  to  re- 
present the  fight  in  the  canoes  at  night,  with 
the  triumphant  followers  of  Wolf's  Pathway 
climbing  into  the  boats  of  their  enemies,  and 
killing  them  with  their  stone-headed  clubs. 

On  the  shore  the  women  were  to  be  shown 
running  along  lighting  the  way  of  their 
heroes,  with  huge  fire-brands.  To  accom- 
plish this,  a  painting  done  some  thirty-five 
years  before,  depicting  the  victory  of  the 
father  of  Wolf's  Pathway — Old  Merciless — 
over  his  life-long  adversary,  Golden  Treas- 
ure, with  the  intrepid  old  warrior  in  the  very 
act  of  splitting  his  rival's  skull  with  his  toma- 
hawk, while  the  victim's  henchmen  stood  by, 
too  awed  by  the  proceeding  to  rush  to  his 
succor,  had  to  be  obliterated.  Indians,  at 


134  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

least  in  these  old  days,  were  anything  but 
sentimental. 

This  took  considerable  time,  but  Fisher 
Fox  had  a  daring  scheme  in  mind,  which  soon 
began  to  blossom  forth  on  the  expansive 
background.  The  central  figure  was  to  be 
Wolf's  Pathway  himself,  attired  in  full  chief- 
tain's regalia,  standing  with  one  foot  in  his 
own  canoe,  while  the  other  was  in  another 
boat  on  the  throat  of  one  of  the  leading  in- 
surgents. With  each  hand  he  was  choking 
to  death  two  other  noted  rebels  who  were 
in  the  same  canoe  as  the  wretch  being  ground 
beneath  his  heel. 

One  bright  morning  in  July  he  was  high 
on  his  scaffold  of  white  birch  poles,  painting 
away  at  the  heroic  figure  of  Wolf's  Pathway, 
when  he  heard  the  singing  of  songs  in  a  for- 
eign tongue,  down  among  the  hemlocks  by 
the  bed  of  the  stream.  Years  previously,  in 
order  to  give  a  better  view  of  the  historical 
paintings  a  vast  clearing  had  been  made  in 
front  of  the  Picture  Rocks.  Every  chief  who 
had  his  deeds  emblazoned  there  decreed  a 
fresh  clearing  of  this  space,  so  that  it  was 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  135 

always  open,  and  the  buffaloes,  elk  and  deer 
often  grazed  there.  The  singing  grew  nearer, 
until  several  heavy  covered  wagons  drawn  by 
oxen,  with  outriders  on  horseback,  came  in 
sight. 

The  Indian  artist  put  some  extra  flour- 
ishes to  his  brush,  and  mixed  in  richer  and 
deeper  tints  to  "show  off"  to  the  strangers. 
As  he  was  alone,  he  was  in  a  decidedly  ami- 
cable spirit.  The  ox  teams  halted  directly 
below  the  scaffolding  in  order  that  the  trav- 
ellers might  look  at  the  painting  and  faces 
began  to  peer  out  from  the  back  of  the 
wagons,  and  children  clambered  down  on  the 
grass  and  ran  about  and  played.  One  young 
woman,  with  a  particularly  heavy  head  of 
dark  brown  hair  and  sparkling  hazel  eyes, 
looked  out  and  caught  the  eye  of  the  artist. 
As  she  did  so,  she  called  out  in  French :  "Who 
ever  saw  such  a  foolish  looking  picture; 
aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?" 

Fisher  Fox  knew  a  little  French  and  could 
guess  the  rest  from  her  gestures  and  laugh- 
ter, and  he  scowled  deeply  and  cursed  under 
his  breath  at  this  ridicule  of  his  masterpiece. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


But  some  of  the  other  members  of  the  party, 
especially  the  men  on  horseback,  were  not  so 
critical,  and  loudly  praised  its  execution. 
Perhaps  they  were  afraid  to  offend  the  In- 
dian lest  he  complain  to  his  chief,  and  start 
hostilities  with  the  Frenchmen.  At  any  rate 
they  stayed  so  long  and  talked  so  much  that 
they  decided  to  halt  where  they  were,  and  a 
couple  of  the  men,  having  found  heavy 
springs  of  water  nearby,  announced  that  they 
would  make  their  homesteads  on  the  spot. 

Until  they  had  time  to  erect  their  one- 
roomed  log  cabins  the  pioneers  lived  in  their 
wagons,  and  the  broad  sward  at  the  foot  of 
the  rocks  soon  presented  an  animated  aspect. 
The  horses  and  oxen  were  picketed,  chickens 
and  geese  were  released  from  their  coops,  and 
not  a  few  dogs  and  cats  made  thmselves  at 
home  under  the  heavy  trucks.  The  dogs 
barked  in  a  chorus  with  the  wolves  and  foxes 
at  night.  The  cats  had  a  rich  feast  on  birds 
which  were  so  plentiful  and  tame,  that  they 
were  easily  caught. 

The  settlers  killed  nearly  a  hundred  buffa- 
loes the  first  month  and  their  hides  and  flesh 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  137 

were  hung  to  dry  on  poles  about  the  camps. 
During  these  hunting  expeditions,  which  con- 
sumed days,  when  it  would  seem  the  men 
ought  have  been  building  their  huts,  for  the 
summer  was  passing  rapidly,  the  women  and 
children  remained  around  the  wagons, 
guarded  by  old  Etienne  Binet,  whose  name 
has  been  corrupted  into  Binney,  by  unap- 
preciative  generations. 

Binet  was  an  expert  shot,  and  was  ac- 
counted capable  of  guarding  the  party  in  case 
of  Indian  attack,  which  seemed  unlikely,  as 
the  land  pre-empted  had  been  paid  for  long 
previous  to  the  settlers  arriving  in  the  valley. 
The  young  dark  woman  who  had  laughed  at 
the  Indian  artist's  frescoes  on  the  Picture 
Socks,  began  to  show  some  interest  in  the 
production  as  it  developed  from  day  to  day. 
Being  agile,  in  response  to  an  invitation  from 
him,  she  climbed  up  and  took  a  seat  beside 
him,  and  watched  him  mix  his  colors  «nd  ply 
his  facile  brush. 

The  two  became  quite  friendly,  and  gradu- 
aly  grew  able  to  talk  together  freely.  She 
told  him  that  her  name  was  Georgie  Dupre, 


138  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

a  cognomen  now  known  in  Pennsylvania  as 
Dippery,  that  she  was  the  wife  of  Bernon 
Dupre,  the  leader  of  the  band  of  settlers. 
Before  her  marriage  her  name  was  De  La 
Planche,  now  called  Plank,  and  her  father, 
old  Jacob  De  La  Planche,  was  one  of  the  best 
known  of  the  earliest  French  pioneers  of 
Berks  county.  Her  husband  and  her  father 
had  quarreled,  she  said,  over  some  cattle,  and 
the  former  had  decided  to  move  "up  coun- 
try," hence  their  appearance  in  the  Muncy 
Valley. 

Fisher  Fox,  the  artist,  was  a  curious  type 
of  Indian.  He  was  undersized,  of  a  deep 
copper  color,  had  small,  pale  eyes,  a  rather 
poorly  chiselled  biggish  nose,  a  sensual  mouth 
and  a  shock  of  very  long  coarse  black  hair.  Ha 
became  most  assiduous  in  his  attentions  to 
Georgie  Dupre,  which  no  one  else  noticed,  as 
the  other  women  were  too  busy  cooking,  sew- 
ing and  tending  children,  to  figure  out  if  a 
Frenchman's  wife  was  spending  too  much 
time  with  an  Indian  decorator. 

Fisher  Fox  was  always  over  his  day's  work 
early,  though  there  were  probably  no  Unions 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  139 

in  his  day.  So  when  Bernon  Dupre  came 
back  at  night  from  the  chase,  he  always 
found  his  wife  sitting  demurely  in  the  sha- 
dow of  his  wagon.  One  morning  Georgie 
met  Fisher  Fox  climbing  down  from  his 
roost,  and  he  told  her  he  was  heading  for  a 
certain  mountain  top  to  dig  some  more  paint 
rock.  She  asked  him  when  he  would  be  back 
and  he  said  before  sunset,  so  she  begged  to 
accompany  him.  They  had  not  gone  far  into 
the  forest  when  a  terribe  rainstorm  arose, 
and  the  Indian  led  his  fair  comrade  into  a 
cave  to  escape  a  wetting.  It  was  cold  in  the 
cave,  so  he  built  a  fire,  and  they  both  sat 
around  it  to  get  warm.  They  became  drowsy, 
and  fell  asleep,  and  when  Georgie  awoke,  she 
was  lying  in  the  arms  of  Fisher  Fox. 

Srange  to  relate,  she  made  no  effort  to 
break  away,  and  the  wily  Indian  seeing  this, 
held  her  tighter  and  tighter.  It  was  a  more 
blissful  embrace  than  she  had  ever  felt  from 
her  husband  or  from  any  of  the  boys  she  had 
known  before  her  marriage,  and  there  in  the 
cave  she  momentarily  imagined  that  her  cop- 


140  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

per-colored  lover  was  the  handsomest  and 
noblest  man  she  had  ever  seen. 

Love  making  and  time  do  not  run  on  the 
same  schedule,  so  when  the  fire  had  burned 
so  low  that  the  cave  became  deadly  cold, 
Fisher  Fox  had  to  gently  lay  her  aside,  to 
throw  on  some  more  wood.  Georgie  smoothed 
out  her  hair  and  brushed  her  skirts,  and  went 
to  the  opening  of  the  cavern  to  see  how  the 
storm  progressed.  When  she  got  there  she 
screamed  loudly,  for  two  reasons,  it  was  pitch 
dark  outside,  and  a  monster  black  bear,  the 
rightful  tenant  of  the  cave,  was  standing 
looking  at  her  quizzically.  Fisher  Fox  rushed 
to  her  assistance,  but  the  bear,  scenting  dan- 
ger, lounged  off  into  the  underbrush,  where 
he  kept  still. 

When  Georgie  saw  the  Indian  she  sobbed 
in  mingled  French  and  Seneca,  of  which  In- 
dian tongue  she  now  knew  a  few  dozen 
words:  "You  told  me  I  would  be  in  camp  by 
sunset,  now  it  may  be  day  after  tomorrow. 
Heaven  alone  knows  how  long  we  have  been 
in  this  cave!"  The  Indian  smiled  at  her, 
confessed  that  he  had  never  been  so  happy 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  141 

before  in  his  life.  This  remark  sealed  the 
French  girl's  fate.  She  elected  to  remain 
with  Fisher  Fox. 

She  told  him  that  her  husband  had  an  aw- 
ful temper,  was  always  beating  the  horses 
and  oxen,  had  knocked  down  her  father,  a 
man  seventy  years  old,  and  she  feared  if  she 
went  back  he  would  handle  her  roughly.  The 
fire  was  again  blazing  brilliantly,  so  the  clan- 
destine lovers  returned  to  it,  and  remained 
another  indistinguishable  period. 

By  this  time  the  rain  had  ceased,  and  the 
sky  was  clear,  so  they  started  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  main  camp  of  Chief  Wolf's  Path- 
way, at  the  base  of  the  North  mountain.  They 
expected  a  friendly  greeting  at  least,  but  the 
great  warrior  flew  into  a  passion  when  he 
saw  his  artist  appear  with  the  attractive 
French  girl.  He  did  not  mind  the  girl  so 
much  as  the  fact  that  Fisher  Fox  had 
left  the  grand  painting  unfinished,  and  under 
circumstances  which  looked  as  if  it  never 
could  be  completed.  He  vented  his  anger  by 
ordering  the  couple  out  of  camp,  and  sent 
two  giant  braves  to  escort  them  to  the  river 


142  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

and  provide  them  with  a  canoe  to  go  down 
stream. 

There  was  no  use  of  Fisher  Fox  protesting 
that  the  settlers  living  on  the  shores  would 
shoot  him  if  they  saw  him  paddling  down 
stream  with  a  white  girl,  it  was  a  case  of  run 
the  risk,  or  die  instantly.  Where  the  "Sha- 
mokin  Dam"  was  built  many  years  later,  the 
canoe  was  in  readiness,  and  Fisher  Fox  and 
his  pretty  sweetheart,  with  enough  provi- 
sions for  ten  days,  were  put  in  it  and  shoved 
into  midstream.  All  went  well  and  no  one 
noticed  them  until  they  were  below  the  pres- 
ent town  of  Liverpool.  Another  terrific 
storm  arose  and  the  frail  canoe  was  tossed 
about  like  a  chip. 

Fisher  Fox  was  a  careful  steersman,  but 
was  no  match  for  the  revolving  currents. 
Sometimes  they  drifted  near  to  shore,  other 
times  they  barely  grazed  the  jagged  rocks  in 
the  centre  of  the  river.  Georgie  was  thor- 
oughly alarmed  and  kept  praying,  but  no  one 
in  peril  ever  took  an  escapade  more  coolly 
than  the  curious  visaged  Red  Man.  Once 
when  they  were  drifting  towards  shore  the 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  143 

canoe  was  swept  under  the  overhanging 
branch  of  an  enormous  elm  tree,  which  hung 
far  out  over  the  water. 

Quick  as  lightning  Fisher  Fox  grabbed  it 
with  both  arms,  and  swung  himself  up  on  it, 
as  the  canoe  swept  underneath.  It  did  not 
take  Georgie  long  to  note  the  cowardy  act, 
and  to  realize  she  had  been  deserted  in  the 
"big  river"  in  a  tiny  boat.  She  tried  to  grab 
at  the  branch,  but  was  not  quick  enough,  and 
was  soon  out  of  its  reach.  Fisher  Fox  called 
to  her,  with  that  treacherous  voice,  so  notice- 
able in  Indians.  "What  a  foolish  looking  pic- 
ture you  make,  all  alone  in  that  canoe,  aren't 
you  ashamed  of  yourself?"  Then  he  ran  along 
the  branch,  "shinned"  down  the  massive 
trunk,  and  disappeared  up  the  bank. 

The  canoe,  with  its  hapless  occupant  now 
drifted  to  the  centre  of  the  stream,  towards 
where  two  mammoth  stones  raised  their 
swarthy  heads.  There  is  a  narrow  channel 
between,  not  wide  enough  for  a  boat  to  pass. 
"If  I  strike  one  of  those  rocks  I  am  lost;  if 
we  head  in  between,  I'm  saved,"  shouted  the 
poor  girl  in  a  frenzy.  Fortune  was  with  her, 


144  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

and  the  diminutive  craft  headed  straight  for 
the  narrow  opening — and  stuck  fast.  Georgie 
had  a  hard  task  to  climb  up  one  of  the  slip- 
pery rocks,  but  she  succeeded.  There  she 
seated  herself,  utterly  exhausted. 

She  wanted  to  lie  down,  but  was  afraid  that 
she  would  fall  asleep  and  roll  into  the  angry 
river.  It  was  very  painful  to  keep  awake  all 
night,  but  the  next  morning  the  sun  came 
out,  and  there  was  a  brisk  wind  from  the 
northwest,  the  "Keewaydin"  as  the  Indian 
called  it.  Two  Germans,  armed  with  guns, 
were  strolling  along  the  shore  watching  for 
birds  that  might  have  drifted  in  with  the 
storm.  One  of  them  spied  Georgie  sitting 
on  the  rock  so  glum  and  disconsolate. 

"Oh,  Balzer,"  he  shouted,  "dere's  a  giant 
sea  bird,  watch  me  shoot  it."  But  Balzer 
had  keener  eyes  than  Johann.  "Dot's  no  sea 
bird,  dot's  a  woman !"  Balzer  looked  again, 
his  friend  was  correct,  and  with  the  imper- 
turbability of  their  race,  they  walked  leis- 
urely for  two  miles  to  where  their  dugout  had 
been  "beached"  and  pushed  up  stream  and 
rescued  the  grateful  castaway. 


VINDICATION  OF  FREDERICK  STUMP 


NOTICED  in  one  of  your 
'Mountain  Stories,' "  said 
old  Aaron  Swartwout/'that 
you  speak  of  Frederick 
Stump  as  'a  hardened 
wretch,'  and  accuse  him  of 
the  cowardly  murder  of 
many  Indians.  In  the  first 
place  he  was  my  ancestor, 
and  I  would  naturally  stand  up  for  his  mem- 
ory, but  apart  from  that  he  has  been  slan- 
dered in  every  history  of  Pennsylvania,  and 
needs  a  defender.  Instead  of  being  a  mur- 
derer he  was  a  peaceful  settler,  although  after 
he  had  punished  some  Indians  for  fiendish 
conduct,  he  was  much  persecuted  by  them, 
and  by  many  of  the  whites,  to  whom  the 
crafty  Red  Men  had  persistently  misrepre- 
sented him. 

"Stump,  in  early  life,  was  a  great  admirer 
of  Indians,  but  almost  from  the  outset  he 

145 


146  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

became  embroiled  with  them,  and  their 
hatred  of  him  was  as  intense,  as  his  former 
love  had  been  strong.  He  cleared  a  fine  farm 
in  the  Middle  Creek  Valley,  and  was  develop- 
ing into  a  personage  of  some  political  im- 
portance when  his  final  trouble  with  the  Red 
Men  took  place.  True  enough,  he  had  al- 
ready been  in  a  dozen  skirmishes  with  In- 
dians, and  had  had  his  thumb  bitten  off  in  a 
hand  to  hand  conflict  near  Fort  Augusta,  but 
in  the  Middle  Creek  Valley  he  lived  for  five 
years  without  having  a  word  with  any  of  the 
tribesmen. 

"He  had  a  favorite  nephew,  Balzer  Min- 
nich,  who,  though  a  rough-looking  individ- 
ual, brutal  and  illiterate,  had  obtained  a  beau- 
ful  wife  in  the  person  of  Georgie  Dupre,  a 
woman  well-known  in  Colonial  history.  He 
had  saved  her  life  from  drowning,  and  out 
of  gratitude  or  perversity,  she  went  to  live 
with  him.  She  had  another  husband,  but 
he  had  disappeared  while  hunting  for  her 
after  she  had  eloped  with  an  Indian  named 
Fisher  Fox.  She  was  amazingly  beautiful, 
clever,  and  full  of  life,  and  her  child  by  Min- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  147 

nich  was  considered  the  handsomest  infant 
'in  the  five  counties.' 

"Stump  gave  them  three  hundred  acres  of 
land  by  the  creek,  some  five  miles  from  his 
own  home,  and  in  a  wild  locality.  Minnich 
worked  hard  to  clear  it,  and  had  built  a  com- 
fortable homestead.  Some  of  the  fields  were 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hill  from  the  house, 
and  he  would  go  out  in  the  morning  to  work 
in  them,  leaving  his  wife  and  child  alone. 
Georgie  was  an  expert  shot,  and  one  night 
when  an  eleven  foot  panther  got  on  the  roof, 
she  opened  the  door  and  shot  it  between  the 
eyes  as  it  attempted  to  jump  down  on  her. 
She  had  a  coat  made  out  of  its  hide,  with  the 
part  from  the  skull  as  a  cap,  and  it  was  a  be- 
coming outfit,  the  yellow  tawney  skin  show- 
ing off  to  advantage  her  jetty  black  hair, 
laughing  hazel  eyes,  and  clear  complexion. 

"She  was  literally  afraid  of  nothing  and 
her  horsemanship  was  proverbial.  She  had 
ridden  the  winner  of  a  race  from  Swinefords- 
town  to  Selinsgrove,  a  distance  of  ten  miles, 
through  the  woods,  over  logs  and  creeks,  al- 


148  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

though  after  the  finish,  Otetiani,  her  pony, 
dropped  dead. 

"One  October  afternoon,  while  her  hus- 
band was  away  and  she  was  shooting  wild 
pigeons  as  they  alighted  on  the  tops  of  the 
original  pines  which  stood  across  the  creek, 
she  thought  she  saw  an  elk  moving  among 
the  laurels.  She  aimed  as  carefully  as  pos- 
sible, and  fired,  but  a  human  cry  of  terror 
made  her  realize  that  she  had  been  uninten- 
tionally gunning  for  a  man.  The  next  minute 
a  squatty  figure  in  Quaker  costume  appeared 
on  the  bank,  and,  the  water  being  low,  waded 
over  to  where  she  stood.  He  had  kept  his 
face  to  the  ground,  but  when  he  looked  up 
she  saw  it  was  none  other  than  her  old  lover, 
Fisher  Fox.  He  had  abandoned  her  in  a 
canoe  in  a  flood  in  the  'big  river,'  so  she  was 
angry  enough  to  kill  him  on  the  spot,  but 
he  threw  up  his  hands  and  plead  for  mercy, 
when  she  made  a  move  to  shoot. 

"  'Please  forgive  me,'  he  cried,  'I  am  in 
fresh  and  terrible  trouble.  I  accidentally 
killed  a  respectable  Quaker  gentleman  and 
am  escaping  from  Harris'  Ferry  in  his 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  149 

clothes.  I  came  here  by  accident  only,  I  as- 
sure you,  and  if  you  will  spare  me  and  not 
tell  any  white  men,  I  will  go  my  way  and 
never  return.'  Woman  like  she  dropped  her 
threatening  attitude,  and  the  Indian  moved 
by  the  cabin,  which  he  peered  into,  and,  per- 
ceiving the  infant  in  the  cradle,  passed  into 
the  wood  beyond,  without  another  word. 

"To  see  that  he  meant  no  mischief  Georgie 
followed  him  a  few  minutes  later,  but  she 
could  detect  by  his  footprints  that  he  had 
gone  straight  ahead.  Not  caring  to  dig  up 
the  past  with  her  husband,  she  kept  mum 
on  her  disagreeable  visitant,  and  the  next 
day  Balzer  went  as  usual  to  his  clearing  job 
across  the  hill. 

"A  month  passed  uneventfully  and  the  in- 
cident was  forgotten.  Frederick  Stump  had 
become  very  fond  of  the  child,  who  had  been 
named  for  him,  so  one  sunshiny  morning 
Minnich  started  on  horseback  to  take  the 
little  chap  to  spend  the  day  with  him. 
Georgie,  surrounded  by  her  dogs  and  guns, 
remained  at  home,  as  she  had  often  done  be- 
fore. Late  in  the  afternoon  she  decided  to 


150  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

take  a  rest,  and  bolting  the  door,  stretched 
herself  face  downward,  as  was  her  custom, 
on  a  bench,  and  was  soon  asleep. 

"The  crack  of  a  gun  awoke  her,  and  she 
turned  around,  and  peered  out  through  the 
window,  only  to  see  her  favorite  hound  drag- 
ging himself  towards  her  with  blood  flowing 
out  of  his  mouth.  Before  he  reached  her 
another  shot  resounded,  followed  by  the  pite- 
ous yelping  of  her  other  dog.  She  knew  the 
Indians  were  after  her,  so  she  jumped  from 
the  bunk  and  trained  her  musket  for  the  ap- 
proach of  her  enemies.  The  wounded  dog 
was  crouching  outside,  but  was  too  weak  to 
bark. 

"In  about  five  minutes  she  heard  noises  at 
the  back  of  the  cabin,  first  there  were  foot- 
falls, then  a  crackling  and  sputtering,  which 
told  her  the  cowardly  Red  Men  were  setting 
it  on  fire,  in  order  to  'smoke'  her  out.  She 
vowed  then  and  there  to  die  in  the  ruins 
rather  than  give  up,  but  she  hoped  to  have 
a  shot  at  her  tormentors  before  all  was  ended. 
The  flames  soon  began  to  eat  a  hole  in  the 
stout  wall,  but  she  never  budged.  This  ex- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  151 

asperated  the  Indians,  and  one  appeared 
around  the  corner  and  started  to  look  in  the 
window.  Georgie  caught  him  where  she 
had  hit  the  panther,  and  death  was  instan- 
taneous. His  fate  showed  the  others  that 
she  was  not  coming  out,  so  they  resolved  to 
'storm  the  castle.' 

"Protecting  themselves  with  slabs  from 
the  woodpile,  they  'rushed'  the  door,  which 
though  ribbed  with  iron  bands  had  to  give 
way  to  the  combined  strength  of  four  sturdy 
savages.  As  it  fell  in  Georgie  fired,  but 
without  effect,  and  the  crowd  overwhelmed 
her.  She  fought  like  a  tigress,  but  they 
wrenched  her  gun  and  knife  away  and  in  the 
struggle  all  her  clothes  was  torn  off.  The 
biggest  Indian  choked  her  until  she  was  black 
in  the  face,  and  then  slipped  a  gag  in  her 
mouth. 

"After  she  was  thus  subdued,  the  big  fel- 
low rushed  her  out  of  doors,  but  none  too 
soon,  for  a  final  gust  of  flame  engulfed  the 
whole  cabin  and  it  was  soon  in  ashes.  Out- 
side he  whistled  loudly,  while  he  was  binding 
her  arms  securely.  Georgie  recovered  her 


152  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

senses  gradually  and  her  first  impression  was 
the  horrible  one  of  seeing  Fisher  Fox  still 
clad  in  his  Quaker  habilaments,  appearing 
from  the  woods  where  she  had  first  heard 
the  gun  shot.  She  was  so  incensed,  she  al- 
most burst  the  gag  in  her  mouth,  and  strug- 
gled with  her  pinioned  arms  until  the  ropes 
ate  into  the  flesh. 

"It  was  no  use,  she  was  only  a  captive, 
bound  and  without  clothing.  When  Fisher 
Fox  came  near  he  began  to  laugh  in  his  high, 
falsetto  voice,  and  put  his  arms  around  the 
helpless  woman  and  began  kissing  her.  Then 
he  said,  'Come  along,  dear,  we  will  be  always 
together  from  now  on.'  She  would  not  stir, 
so  the  other  Indians  grabbed  her  shoulders 
and  dragged  her  forward.  She  let  herself 
fall  again  and  again,  rather  than  move  an 
inch,  so  they  picked  her  up  and  carried  her 
through  the  forest,  taking  turns.  They  must 
have  gone  about  five  miles  up  the  creek,  when 
Fisher  Fox  said  they  would  pitch  camp  for 
the  night. 

"It  was  a  foolish  thing  to  do,  but  some  of 
the  other  Indians  had  been  getting  tired  and 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  153 

cold  and  grumbled  loudly.  As  his  authority 
over  them  was  not  very  pronounced,  it  was 
hard  to  do  otherwise.  Georgie  was  uncon- 
scious from  cold  by  this  time,  so  a  big  fire  was 
kindled,  and  she  was  laid  by  it  to  thaw  out. 
When  she  opened  her  eyes,  Fisher  Fox  was 
by  her  side,  and  began  asking  her  if  she 
would  love  him  again.  She  shook  her  head 
violently,  and  closed  her  eyes,  so  she  could  not 
look  at  the  monster.  It  was  no  use,  for  he 
shook  her  roughly,  bawling  out  shrilly  for 
an  answer. 

"The  enemies  of  Marshal  Saxe  say  that  he 
persecuted  Justine  Favart  because  she  would 
not  reciprocate  his  love,  but  that  was  not  a 
circumstance  to  the  arrant  brutality  of  this 
rejected  Redskin.  At  last  he  could  restrain 
himself  no  longer  and  screamed :  'If  you  will 
not  love  me,  I'll  have  you  tied  to  a  tree  and 
lashed  until  you  do.'  He  had  hardly  gotten 
these  words  out  of  his  mouth  when  two  pow- 
erful, bearded  figures  emerged  from  the 
laurels.  They  were  Balzer  Minnich  and 
Frederick  Stump. 


154  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

"The  latter  had  returned  to  spend  a  few 
days  at  the  Minnich  home.  Finding  the 
house  in  ashes,  the  dead  Indian  and  signs  of 
a  struggle,  they  tracked  the  party  through 
the  snow,  leaving  the  baby  tied  in  a  basket 
on  the  back  of  one  of  the  faithful  horses,  and 
guarded  by  one  of  Stump's  giant  bear  hounds. 
Minnich  rushed  forward  with  an  oath  and 
grabbed  Fisher  Fox  by  the  throat.  When  he 
downed  him  he  began  to  carve  him  into  rib- 
bons with  his  hunting  knife. 

"Stump  was  on  the  other  three  Indians, 
who  were  thoroughly  frightened,  and 
knocked  them  senseless,  one  by  one,  with  the 
butt  of  his  musket.  Then  he  cut  their  throats 
and  piled  them  in  a  heap.  The  Indian  women 
who  were  encamped  nearby,  cut  their  own 
throats  and  one  butchered  her  child  so 
as  not  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  whites. 
Minnich  left  Fisher  Fox  to  slowly  bleed  to 
death  and  covered  Georgie  with  his  coat.  She 
again  became  unconscious,  and  he  left  her 
by  the  fire,  while  with  Stump  he  surveyed  the 
bloody  job.  'We  must  get  rid  of  these  bodies, 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  155 

or  the  sight  of  them  will  kill  the  girl/  said 
Stump. 

"Minnich  stamped  on  Fisher  Fox's  dying 
face  until  it  became  a  jelly,  and  then  joined 
his  uncle  in  carrying  the  corpses  to  the  bank 
of  the  creek.  There  they  knocked  a  great 
round  hole  in  the  ice,  and  threw  the  bodies 
down  it,  as  if  into  a  sewer. 

"By  this  time  Georgie  had  recovered  again, 
and  was  refreshed  to  see  no  signs  of  the  re- 
cent tragedy.  With  Minnich  carrying  her, 
they  started  in  the  direction  of  the  burnt 
cabin.  On  the  edge  of  the  clearing  they  came 
to  where  they  had  left  the  baby,  finding  him 
asleep  and  safe. 

"Georgie  felt  so  happy  after  her  adven- 
ture, that  she  leaped  on  one  horse  with  the 
child,  while  Minnich  and  Stump  mounted  the 
other.  It  was  now  nearly  daybreak,  and  in  a 
couple  of  hours  they  were  landed  in  front  of 
Stump's  big  log  mansion. 

"All  the  neighbors  were  informed  of  the 
burning  of  Minnich's  cabin  and  the  attempted 
abduction  of  his  wife,  and  heartily  approved 


156  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

of  the  summary  disposal  of  the  dastardly 
Indians. 

"But  the  affair  was  not  to  end  so  pleas- 
antly. Early  in  February  there  was  a  heavy 
snowfall  and  grand  sleighing.  Minnich  and 
Georgie,  with  their  child,  took  advantage  of 
it  to  return  to  Berks  county,  where  her 
father,  Jacob  De  La  Planche,  had  a  planta- 
tion at  the  foot  of  the  Blue  mountains.  It 
was  fortunate  they  did,  for  the  breaking  up 
of  the  ice  in  Middle  Creek  brought  ten  grue- 
some, mutilated  corpses  into  the  Susquehanna 
below  Selinsgrove.  The  local  authorities, 
wishing  to  please  the  Indians,  determined  to 
make  an  example  of  the  'murderers.' 

"Frederick  Stump  was  accused,  and  to 
shield  Georgie  and  her  family  from  further 
trouble,  took  all  the  blame  on  himself.  He 
was  thrown  into  prison,  but  a  determined 
mob  of  sympathizers  broke  down  the  jail, 
and  he  was  carried  away  on  their  shoulders 
in  triumph.  Feeling  was  so  strong  that  he 
was  not  re-arrested,  but  he  left  the  Middle 
Creek  Valley  and  moved  into  Franklin 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  157 

county,  later  being  joined  by  Georgie,  her 
husband  and  son. 

"But  a  stain  was  put  on  his  name  that  grew 
deeper  with  the  years.  After  his  death  it 
exceeded  all  bounds,  and  persons  who  waxed 
sentimental  over  the  wrongs  of  the  Red  Men 
used  him  as  a  'horrible  example.' 

"It  is  as  hard  to  change  history  as  the 
course  of  a  river,  so  many  worthy  men  are 
eternally  damned  by  it.  While  Frederick 
Stump  had  his  faults,  he  was  not  a  cold- 
blooded murderer,  even  of  Indians ;  he  merely 
checked  a  cruel  plot  againt  a  defenseless 
woman,  and  set  an  example  to  all  other  Red 
Men,  similarly  inclined." 

I  told  old  Aaron  Swartwout  I  would  be 
glad  to  make  use  of  this  story  some  day,  even 
though  I  knew  that  history  would  not  be 
changed  a  jot  by  it.  It  was  a  satisfaction  to 
hear  this  story,  and  have  a  prejudice  re- 
moved, for,  like  many  students  of  Central 
Pennsylvania  history,  I  had  always  regarded 
Frederick  Stump  as  a  monster  of  inhumanity. 
Even  in  his  remote  day  it  was  probably  true 
that  "a  good  Indian  is  a  dead  Indian." 


XI. 


THE  CROSS  ON  THE  ROCK 


AVE  you  ever  seen  the  cross 
on  the  rock?"  said  the  old 
half-breed.  I  had  several 
hours  of  a  wait  before  me 
at  Keating  station  for  the 
afternoon  train,  east  bound, 
and  the  acquaintance  with 
this  aged  native  had  prom- 
ised to  pass  the  time  very 
pleasantly.  I  had  never  even  heard  of  this 
"natural  wonder,"  so  I  asked  where  it  was, 
and  if  we  had  time  to  go  and  look  at  it. 

"I  begged  the  contractors,  when  they  were 
building  the  railroad  not  to  destroy  it,  and 
they  let  it  be,  but  I  call  its  preservation  a 
miracle,"  he  added.  "Yes,  we  can  go  and 
see  it,  it  is  not  far  up  the  creek."  So  I  left 
the  party  of  trainmen  who  were  sitting  on  the 
platform  of  the  freight  house  whittling  the 
planking  with  their  sharp  case  knives,  and 
accompanied  the  Indian  along  the  newly- 

158 


THE  CROSS  ON  THE  ROCK 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  159 

graded    railroad    which    follows    the    West 
Branch  in  the  direction  of  Clearfield. 

It  was  not  a  long  walk,  and  I  felt  amply 
rewarded  for  the  effort.  The  rock,  high  and 
massive,  rises  from  the  right-of-way,  and  on 
its  side  is  a  perfectly  proportioned  cross,  cut 
deep  into  the  strata.  "Who  could  have  done 
that?"  I  inquired.  "The  early  French  pion- 
eers, or  rather  one  French  missionary,  a 
priest,  did  it,"  said  the  half-breed.  "He 
tried  to  convert  the  Indians  hereabouts 
to  Christianity,  over  two  hundred  years 
ago.  He  had  striven  for  weeks  to  con- 
vert them,  but  they  were  a  wilful  and 
superstitious  lot,  and  defied  him  until  he 
carved  that  cross.  Then  a  catastrophe  oc- 
curred, in  which  the  missionary  and  most  of 
the  natives  lost  their  lives,  at  least  that's 
what  I've  heard  from  the  very  old  people. 
The  early  inhabitants  of  this  point,  where 
the  West  Branch  and  the  Sinnemahoning 
come  together,  were  an  independent  tribe; 
they  claimed  allegiance  to  none  of  the  sur- 
rounding Indians,  and  by  victorious  wars 
proved  their  right  to  self  government.  They 


160  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

were  lighter  colored  than  Indians  generally, 
and  some  of  them  had  grey  or  bluish  eyes. 

"They  claimed  descent  from  European 
sailors  who  had  come  to  the  American  conti- 
nent a  thousand  years  ago.  In  this  they 
were  probably  incorrect,  as  their  religion  had 
nothing  in  it  that  savored  of  the  old  world 
beliefs — ancient  or  modern.  They  had  a 
multitude  of  divinities  and  were  always  add- 
ing new  ones  to  the  list;  also  discarding 
older  ones  who  failed  to  answer  their  pray- 
ers. A  religious  revival  had  taken  place 
among  them  shortly  before  the  coming  of 
the  French  missionary. 

"Several  of  the  leading  warriors  while  on 
their  way  to  a  buffalo  hunt  on  what  we  now 
call  the  'barrens'  saw  to  their  amazement  a 
most  beautiful  young  woman,  wading  in  the 
river  at  the  mouth  of  Trout  Run.  She  wore 
a  flowing  cloak  made  from  the  spotty  hides 
of  fawns  and  trimmed  with  gauzy  draperies 
as  fine  as  spider  webs.  The  morning  sun 
shining  on  her  hair,  gave  out  a  glint  of  rich 
gold,  and  the  same  tint  was  very  noticeable 
in  the  lustrous  dark  eyes.  The  Indians  for- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  161 

got  the  chase  and  started  to  follow  her,  but 
she  always  kept  far  enough  ahead  so  that 
they  could  not  catch  up  to  her.  Her  way 
led  up  the  run,  and  every  now  and  then  when 
she  passed  through  an  opening  made  by  a 
windfall,  the  sun  would  gild  and  glisten  on 
her  beautiful  hair  and  eyes.  As  one  man, 
they  called  her  'Golden  Glow,'  and,  completely 
fascinated,  followed  her  to  the  creek's  head- 
waters. There  she  disappeared,  but  they 
found  themselves  in  the  midst  of  the  largest 
herd  of  buffaloes  they  had  ever  seen.  There 
were  thousands  of  the  animals  bellowing  and 
running  about  among  the  tall  trees.  Inter- 
spersed with  them  were  considerable  num- 
bers of  moose  and  elks,  while  deer  were  too 
plentiful  to  be  worth  noticing. 

"Every  Indian  in  the  party  had  been  to 
this  hunting  ground  previously,  but  never 
had  game  shown  itself  there  in  such  abund- 
ance. The  brutes  seemed  anxious  to  be 
slaughtered,  so  the  hunters  turned  in  and 
killed  them  by  the  hundreds.  They  were 
weeks  in  gathering  together  the  hides  and 
drying  the  choicest  meats,  and  built  heavy 


162  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

sleds  to  draw  them  down  the  mountain 
at  the  next  snowfall.  Before  they  departed 
there  was  an  unusually  early  snow,  and  they 
got  all  their  sleds  into  the  valley  without  an 
accident. 

"When  they  met  their  tribesmen  they 
started  to  tell  of  their  wonderful  fortune,  but . 
their  friends  were  so  anxious  to  tell  of  the 
strangely  beautiful  maiden  they  had  seen  in 
the  river — and  how  the  fishing  and  hunting 
had  been  better  than  they  had  ever  heard  of  it 
— that  they  refused  to  listen.  To  emphasize 
the  good  fortune,  a  tribe  of  Indians  who  had 
been  at  warfare  with  them  for  some  years, 
came  and  voluntarily  surrendered,  giving 
themselves  into  servitude. 

"Before  anything  of  a  favorable  nature 
would  occur  'Golden  Glow'  was  always  seen 
in  the  river  or  on  a  steep  hillside,  or  resting 
under  a  beech  tree  near  the  council  house. 
She  never  answered  when  they  spoke  to  her ; 
she  disdained  gifts  they  offered  her,  and  no 
one  could  get  within  a  hundred  yards  of 
where  she  stood.  The  older  gods  having 
been  far  less  generous,  were  discarded  root 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  163 

and  branch,  and  the  worship  of  'Golden  Glow' 
substituted. 

"She  was  so  beautiful  that  all  the  young 
braves  aspired  to  the  priesthood,  a  calling 
that  had  in  the  old  days  been  decidedly  un- 
popular. The  handsomest  braves,  after  much 
rivalry,  were  selected,  and  practiced  their 
rites  with  dignity  and  reverence,  but  the 
mysterious  divinity  did  not  deign  to  notice 
any  of  them,  although  she  often  appeared  to 
them  when  at  prayer  or  chanting  hymns  in 
her  praise. 

"She  was  the  most  accommodating  divinity 
imaginable,  for  she  always  seemed  to  answer 
their  supplications,  and  could  be  actually 
seen,  even  if  her  face  did  not  betray  any 
emotions  at  the  homage  paid  her. 

When  Father  Ernest  Laborde  appeared  at 
the  confluence  of  the  two  rivers  he  met  with 
the  first  serious  obstacle  that  had  confronted 
him  in  a  career  of  over  ten  years  in  the  wild- 
erness. 

"Here  was  a  tribe  of  Indians  entirely  sat- 
isfied with  their  religion,  having  a  tangible 
divinity  who  was  beautiful  to  look  at,  and 


164  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

who  invariably  favored  their  supplications. 
Of  course  he  disbelieved  that  anyone  had 
ever  really  seen  her,  for  he  had  prayed  as 
fervently  as  any,  and  knew  others  even  more 
devout,  yet  none  had  ever  heard  so  much  as 
the  rustle  of  an  angel's  wing.  Gently,  though 
firmly,  he  tried  to  persuade  the  Redskins  that 
they  only  saw  their  divinity  with  eyes  of 
faith,  that  not  being  material  they  had  never 
actually  seen  her,  in  the  sense  that  we  see  a 
rock,  a  tree,  or  a  bird. 

"Every  member  of  the  community,  old 
enough  to  reason  had  seen  her,  and  no 
amount  of  argument  could  convince  them 
otherwise.  If  this  Christian  faith  possessed 
divinities  that  would  come  and  live  in  their 
midst  and  grant  such  bountiful  favors,  they 
might  listen,  but  let  Father  Laborde  first  ad- 
duce some  of  his  proofs.  The  good  priest 
had  brought  a  delicately  carved  cross  of  rose- 
wood, and  one  calm  evening,  feeling  so  dis- 
couraged, that  he  was  on  the  point  of  leaving, 
he  built  a  stout  foundation  of  stones  and 
mud  and  set  the  cross  on  it.  He  was  only 
thirty  yars  of  age,  well  proportioned  and  at- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  165 

tractive  looking,  and  failure  rested  heavily 
on  his  impetuous  soul. 

"From  a  worldly  standpoint  the  conver- 
sion of  these  masterful  Indians  at  the  'meet- 
ing of  the  waters'  meant  much  to  him.  If 
they  were  converted  the  French  trading  com- 
pany had  planned  to  erect  a  formidable  block- 
house in  the  neighborhood,  and  he  had  been 
promised  the  largest  parsonage  in  New 
France  if  he  succeeded.  While  meditating 
before  the  cross,  his  mind  wandered  to  the 
beauties  of  nature  around  him.  The  river 
ripuJed  at  his  feet,  gilded  here  and  there  by 
the  glint  of  the  dying  sun  as  its  slanting  rays 
poured  through  the  vistas  of  tall  pines,  hem- 
locks and  beeches.  All  manner  of  wild  flow- 
ers were  in  profusion,  and  even  a  few  frail 
blossoms  —  like  women's  eyes  —  lingered 
among  the  shining  leaves  of  the  laurels.  The 
moss  was  like  a  velvet  carpet  under  his  feet, 
the  sky  was  like  a  fresco  at  Versailles. 

"Occasionally  he  heard  the  rattle-like  cries 
of  the  kingfishers  or  halcyons  as  they  darted 
close  to  the  water,  or  the  somnolent  croaks 
of  the  ravens  flapping  lazily  back  to  roost 


166  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

high  up  in  the  mountains.  His  eyes  finally 
rested  on  a  pool  of  dead  water,  where  night 
herons  were  congregated  in  unusual  numbers. 

"From  the  way  they  flapped  their  striped 
wings  and  opened  and  shut  their  large  beaks, 
he  felt  something  was  to  happen.  He  forgot 
all  about  his  task,  so  intently  was  he  watch- 
ing the  comic  antics  of  the  birds.  He  felt  a 
breath  blow  in  his  face  and  as  he  looked 
around  his  cross  tumbled  out  of  its  founda- 
tion, and  lay  broken  on  the  rocks.  Back  of 
him  stood  the  slender  figure  of  a  young  girl, 
clad  in  a  flowing  gown  made  from  the  hide  of 
a  fawn,  with  the  golden  rays  of  the  dying  sun 
gilding  into  rich  tints  her  lustrous  hair  and 
thoughtful  eyes.  For  an  instant  he  pre- 
sumed her  to  be  one  of  the  Indian  girls,  but 
from  her  attire  and  queenly  grace  his  heart 
told  him  she  was  the  river  divinity  'Golden 
Glow,'  who  had  brought  such  blessings  to  the 
savage  community  where  the  waters  joined. 

"Their  eyes  met,  they  both  smiled,  it 
seemed  as  if  they  had  surely  been  acquainted 
before.  He  would  have  spoken,  but  she 
walked  by  him  and  the  great  flock  of  herons 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  167 

hopped  up  and  surrounded  her.  With  her 
feathered  companions  she  disappeared  among 
the  laurels  back  of  the  pool.  When  she  was 
gone  he  looked  at  the  fallen  cross,  it  was 
broken  into  twenty-four  pieces,  and  was  be- 
yond repair.  It  was  growing  dark,  so  he 
returned  to  his  tent,  where  his  sleep  was 
filled  with  dreams  of  the  divine  'Golden 
Glow.' 

"In  the  morning  he  cut  several  ironwood 
poles  and  fashioned  a  new  cross  much 
stronger  than  the  delicate  piece  of  rosewood 
that  had  been  so  easily  shattered.  That  after- 
noon he  put  it  in  place  where  the  other  had 
stood.  Nature  was  just  as  entrancing  as 
the  day  before,  and  despite  himself  he  fell  to 
admiring  the  wonders  about  him.  A  troop  of 
deer,  many  of  them  with  half -grown  fawns, 
were  splashing  idly  on  the  edges  of  the  pool. 
He  felt  a  breath,  like  a  zephyr  blown  across 
meadows  from  cool  woodlands,  he  looked 
around,  the  ironwood  cross  fell  to  the  ground, 
and  was  hopelessly  smashed. 

"The  beautiful  young  girl  was  standing 
pensively  by  the  stream ;  their  eyes  met,  they 


168  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

smiled  as  if  in  recognition  of  old  acquaint- 
ance; she  moved  on  and  was  surrounded  by 
the  deer  and  passed  into  the  forest  with 
them.  He  looked  at  his  cross,  it  was  broken 
into  twenty-five  pieces;  this  sturdy  iron  wood 
was  as  shaky  as  rosewood.  That  night  he 
dreamed  even  more  of  the  river  goddess,  but 
in  the  morning  he  took  two  gun  barrels  and 
welded  a  cross  that  he  was  sure  would  last. 

"Towards  evening  he  planted  it  in  an  extra 
strong  foundation,  and  fell  to  meditating  be- 
fore it.  His  eyes  wandered  to  the  edge  of 
the  pool  where  a  long,  tawney  panther,  was 
stretching  itself  and  yawning.  He  was  not 
afraid  of  anything,  and  the  sight  at  close 
range  of  this  titanic  beast  fascinated  him. 
Soon  a  second  panther,  larger  than  the  first, 
peered  through  the  laurels,  and  cat-like  be- 
gan to  lap  up  water  in  the  pool. 

"In  a  few  minutes  he  heard  a  slight 
scratching  and  cracking  of  dead  branches, 
and  a  third  panther  crawled  down  from  one 
of  the  tallest  white  pines.  A  fourth,  the  larg- 
est of  all,  rose  up  from  behind  a  rotten  log 
along  the  bank,  and  before  long  the  number 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  169 

of  this  savage  coterie  had  grown  to  twelve. 
Later  six  cubs  joined  them,  and  frisked  in  the 
presence  of  their  sedate  elders.  He  felt  the 
same  sweet  breath  blown  beside  his  face,  the 
cross  toppled  over  and  lay  broken  into  dozens 
of  pieces  on  the  sharp  rocks.  His  eyes  rested 
on  the  mysterious  divinity.  She  looked  more 
beautiful  this  evening  than  previously,  if 
such  a  thing  were  possible.  Their  glances 
were  followed  by  smiles  and,  to  his  amaze- 
ment, he  saw  her  lips  move,  and  she  spoke  to 
him  in  the  Indian  tongue :  'My  religion  is  liv- 
ing and  real;  come,  leave  those  crosses  and 
follow  me  into  the  forest.' 

"He  started  to  follow  her,  and  was  within 
a  few  steps  of  where  she  stood  encircled  by 
the  panther  families,  when  the  force  of  old 
traditions,  old  customs,  old  beliefs,  overcame 
him.  He  stopped  short,  and  the  beautiful 
divinity  'Golden  Glow,'  with  her  strange  es- 
cort, was  gone  in  the  gloom  of  the  forest.  He 
returned  to  his  tent,  and  all  night  the  ques- 
tion agitated  him,  should  he  go  with  her,  that 
is  if  she  ever  appeared  to  him  again,  should 


170  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

he  give  up  the  beliefs  of  his  fathers  and  adopt 
this  apparently  potent  faith. 

"Then  he  would  weaken  and  think  of  his 
brothers  and  sisters  at  home,  their  respect- 
able name,  the  rewards  that  his  nation 
promised  if  he  Christianized  unwilling  sav- 
ages. He  saw  himself  an  archbishop,  the 
friend  of  kings,  in  a  marble  palace;  his  as- 
cetic training  had  neutralized  the  value  of 
merely  a  beautiful  companion  in  the  wilder- 
ness. As  the  dawn  filtered  in  through  the 
crevices  in  the  tent,  a  new  idea  seized  him. 
He  would  cut  a  cross  in  the  rock  which  the 
mystic  goddess  could  not  blow  over,  and 
struck  by  the  impregnable  strength  of  his 
faith,  he  would  convert  her,  and  maybe  she 
would  be  the  greatest  woman  in  Catholicism 
since  St.  Genevieve. 

"With  a  hammer  and  spike  he  repaired  to 
the  quiet  nook  where  his  crosses  had  been, 
and  in  the  huge  rock  which  rose  above  the 
bank  he  chiseled  a  cross  of  noticeable  size. 
Then  he  fell  to  meditating,  as  was  his  wont. 
On  the  opposite  side  of  the  pool  a  solitary 
wolverene  was  lying  on  the  rotting  log;  he 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  171 

could  not  help  watching  it,  with  its  wide- 
open,  unwinking  eyes,  so  crafty  and  yet  so 
still.  He  felt  a  breath  of  indescribable  sweet- 
ness blow  past  his  face,  the  cross  on  the  rock 
remained  inviolate. 

"He  thought  he  heard  a  sigh  like  a  breeze 
among  birch  leaves ;  he  looked,  and  the  divin- 
ity, 'Golden  Glow'  stood  beside  him.  He  felt 
her  blow  her  breath  again.  He  fancied  he 
saw  tears  in  her  eyes,  which  grew  larger  and 
larger.  They  assumed  the  proportions  of  a 
vapor,  snd  soon  she  was  lost  to  sight  in  a 
white  fog  which  filled  the  entire  vicinity.  He 
called  to  her,  but  not  even  an  echo  answered. 

"With  difficulty  he  started  to  find  his  way 
back  to  his  camp,  but  the  air  became  so  thick 
that  it  seemed  as  if  the  forests  were  on  fire. 
True  enough,  they  were,  for  great  tongues 
of  red  and  purple  flames  shot  out  of  the  tim- 
ber on  both  sides  of  the  river.  He  heard  a 
snarling  at  his  feet,  and  dimly  made  out  the 
form  of  the  solitary  wolverene.  When  he 
reached  his  tent  the  flames  had  surrounded 
the  whole  Indian  encampment,  and  the  terri- 
fied Red  Men,  with  their  families,  were 


172  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

crowding  into  canoes  and  starting  down  the 
stream. 

"His  first  thought  was  self-preservation, 
but  as  he  started  to  get  in  his  boat,  the  wolv- 
erene sprang  at  him  viciously.  Unarmed,  he 
tried  to  tear  the  animal  off  with  his  powerful 
hands,  but  he  was  losing  time,  while  the 
flames  were  drawing  closer.  As  he  finally 
shook  loose  from  his  tormentor,  a  horrible 
form  rushed  at  him  from  the  blazing  under- 
brush. It  was  Wheel  of  Rivers,  titular  chief 
of  the  local  Indians.  His  naturally  calm  face 
was  contorted  with  passion  and  hate. 

"  'You  with  your  new  religion,  have  de- 
stroyed the  river  goddess.  We  know  you 
have,  for  we  never  had  a  forest  fire  while 
she  was  with  us ;'  with  that  he  struck  Father 
Laborde  to  earth  with  his  war  club,  and 
leaped  into  the  empty  canoe.  The  flames 
were  now  darting  across  the  river,  and  it  was 
too  late  to  escape.  Wheel  of  Rivers  drifted 
stoically  into  the  fiery  curtain  and  was  never 
seen  again.  Most  of  his  tribe  met  similar 
fates,  but  a  few  who  got  away  earlier,  floated 
down  the  river  to  places  of  safety. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  173 

"But  the  young  priest's  mission  had  been 
accomplished  in  a  way;  when  the  French 
built  their  fort  at  Grande  Point,  some  years 
later,  their  most  dangerous  foes  were  no 
more,  but  thousands  of  acres  of  burned  waste 
showed  the  area  of  their  domain.  The  cross 
on  the  rocks,  blackened  a  little  by  the  fierce 
flames,  remained  inviolate,  a  symbol  of  the 
faith  and  people  who  were  soon  to  make  the 
region  a  white  man's  stronghold.  The  river 
goddess  never  reappeared,  her  fair  soul  had 
faded  into  nothingness  with  the  disappoint- 
ment of  her  fiery  baptism. 


XII. 
THE  FATE  OF  GEORGIE  DUPRE 


HE  Bald  Eagle  Mountain  be- 
low Pine  Station,  Clinton 
county,  is  high  and  steep, 
and  one  would  imagine  that 
on  reaching  the  summit  a 
similar  declivity  would  be 
met  with  on  the  other  side. 
But  it  only  slopes  down  for 
a  comparatively  short  dis- 
tance until  it  broadens  out  into  a  stretch  of 
flat  upland,  which  in  turn  gradually  rises  into 
another  mountain  almost  as  high  as  the  Bald 
Eagle.  This  "bowl"  between  the  two  ridges 
is  called  the  "Little  Valley,"  because  it  is  so 
much  smaller  than  the  valley  of  the  Susque- 
hanna,  or  even  Nippenose  Valley.  But  it  is 
more  of  a  plateau  than  a  valley,  although  the 
early  settlers  who  named  it  preferred  titles 
to  be  simple,  rather  than  geographically  cor- 
rect. 


174 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  175 

Despite  its  isolated  position,  settlement  of 
the  Little  Valley  was  made  almost  as  early 
as  the  West  Branch,  the  first  houses  having 
been  constructed  probably  in  1769.  The 
pioneers  were  Balzer  Minnich  and  his  wife, 
formerly  Georgie  Dupre.  She  had  been  previ- 
ously married  to  one  Bernon  Dupre,  who  dis- 
appeared eight  years  before  in  the  forests 
near  Picture  Rocks.  In  the  interval  she  had 
been  in  many  adventures  with  the  Indians, 
which  she  seemed  to  enjoy,  as  she  urged  her 
husband  to  leave  a  fine  farm  in  what  is  now 
Franklin  county,  to  try  frontier  life  again  in 
Central  Pennsylvania. 

They  left  their  seven-year-old  son  with 
Minnich's  uncle,  the  celebrated  Frederick 
Stump.  Besides  the  Minnichs,  the  other 
settlers  in  the  Little  Valley  were  Leopold  and 
Gaspard  Huyett,  two  young  men  from  Berks 
county,  and  cousins  to  the  adventurous 
Georgie.  Minnich  had  objected  to  return- 
ing to  the  wilderness,  but  he  was  a  dull  Ger- 
man, and  was  so  devoted  to  his  attractive 
wife,  that  he  finally  consented. 


176  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

When  the  party  reached  the  Little  Valley 
they  were  agreeably  surprised;  the  water 
was  good,  the  soil  rich,  a  particularly  fine 
quality  of  yellow  pine — suitable  for  building 
— abounded;  it  was  used  in  the  construction 
of  gun-boats  in  the  Civil  War  nearly  a  hun- 
dred years  later.  It  was  the  watering  place 
for  herds  of  elk,  deer  and  buffaloes,  which 
had  been  driven  from  their  former  winter 
quarters  in  the  other  valleys,  by  the  advent 
of  so  many  white  settlers.  There  was  an- 
other reason  why  they  liked  the  Little  Valley. 
The  Indians  had  made  it  an  "open  ground," 
that  is  to  say,  the  tribes  in  Sugar  and  Nippe- 
nose  Valleys  agreed  to  only  approach  its 
southern,  and  the  West  Branch  Indians  re- 
solved to  come  only  to  its  northern  limits, 
as  the  result  of  a  great  peace  treaty  between 
the  warring  tribes  15  years  before. 

Both  factions  agreed  on  instant  death  to 
any  Red  Man  found  crossing  the  "dead  lines." 
White  Men  might  have  boundaries  of  imagin- 
ary width,  but  the  Indians  required  them  a 
mile  wide,  so  that  no  one  could  be  tempted  to 
renew  hostilities  by  shooting  at  his  old-time 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  177 

enemies  across  an  invisible  demarkation.  All 
went  happily  with  the  four  settlers,  and  by 
September  of  the  year  of  their  arrival  had 
made  a  respectable  sized  clearing.  The  two 
houses  were  set  on  solid  foundations,  as  Leo- 
pold Huyett  was  a  stone  mason  by  trade. 
They  killed  enough  elk  and  buffaloes  to  have 
kept  them  supplied  with  dried  meat  for 
years,  and  sold  several  hundred  buffalo  hides 
to  a  Scotch-Irish  trader  established  near  the 
present  site  of  Jersey  Shore. 

Provided  with  money  and  all  the  necessi- 
ties of  life,  they  looked  forward  to  a  winter 
of  ease.  The  Huyett  brothers  contemplated 
a  trip  to  Berks  county  in  search  of  French 
wives,  for  these  Huguenots  were  very  clan- 
nish, and  seldom  married  outside  their  own 
race.  On  one  of  those  sultry,  overcast  after- 
noons so  characteristic  of  the  early  part  of 
September,  the  Minnichs  and  Huyetts  were 
sitting  on  comfortable  benches  in  front  of 
their  cabins,  all,  including  Georgie,  smoking 
their  pipes.  Occasionally  a  yellow-leaf 
would  flutter  down  from  a  birch  tree,  or  a 
belated  scarlet  butterfly  flit  past,  but  nature 


178  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

seemed  to  be  in  an  introspective  mood  before 
taking  on  herself  the  gorgeous  habilaments 
of  autumn.  It  was  like  a  religious  person's 
last  prayer  before  the  carnival. 

Georgie's  eyes  happened  to  glance  up- 
wards in  the  direction  of  the  North- 
ern mountain,  and  on  the  summit  she 
detected  something  red  moving  about  among 
the  giant  pines.  She  leaned  over  to  her  hus- 
band and  whispered  to  him,  and  he  looked  in 
the  same  direction.  He  pointed  out  the  ob- 
jects to  the  Huyetts,  and  then  all  spoke  out 
in  low  voices:  "Those  are  Indians."  They 
did  not  wish  to  appear  alarmed,  so  continued 
lolling  on  the  benches  smoking. 

Afternoon  softened  into  dusk,  and  Georgie 
laid  aside  her  pipe  and  began  to  prepare  sup- 
per; night  fell,  but  no  sound  of  the  Indians 
came  to  their  ears.  Leopold  Huyett  was  left 
on  guard  at  the  door  as  a  precaution,  but  he 
must  have  fallen  asleep,  as  the  wily  Indians 
crept  upon  him  so  easily  and  cut  his  throat 
and  scalped  him.  They  pushed  in  the  door, 
and  were  upon  the  three  sleepers  before  they 
could  seize  their  weapons. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  179 

In  the  darkness  Minnich  and  Gaspard  were 
stabbed  and  scalped  while  Georgie  was 
throttled  and  carried  off  a  captive.  She  must 
have  been  almost  strangled,  for  she  did  not 
"come  to"  for  a  number  of  hours.  When  she 
did,  she  saw  she  was  being  carried  up  a  run, 
which  she  recognized  as  the  McElhattan, 
having  visited  the  pioneer  Simeon  Shaffer 
and  family  who  lived  on  its  banks  but  a  week 
before.  It  was  no  use  to  cry  out,  as  that 
meant  death,  and  ignorant  of  what  really 
occurred,  she  was  hoping  that  in  the  excite- 
ment her  husband  had  made  his  escape. 

The  captors  approached  the  high  water 
fall  near  the  headwaters  of  the  main  run,  at 
the  foot  of  which  the  Indians  had  cleared  a 
space  of  about  50  acres.  A  strong  circular 
stockade  had  been  built  over  the  top  of  the 
falls,  which  gave  the  Red  Men  an  excellent 
view  down  the  stream.  Back  of  it,  where 
the  ground  was  level  they  had  cleared  and 
burnt  off  probably  a  hundred  acres,  so  they 
were  well  intrenched  against  sudden  attack. 

But  building  a  stockade  was  a  step  back- 
ward in  Indian  warfare ;  whenever  they  imi- 


180  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

tated  the  white  men  they  were  defeated.  It 
was  only  when  they  fought  from  behind  trees 
and  ambushed  their  foes,  that  they  could  be 
counted  as  equal  adversaries. 

The  captors,  bearing  Georgie,  climbed  up 
a  steep  path  at  the  right  side  of  the  falls,  and 
at  the  landing  were  met  by  Chief  Ho-non- 
wah  himself.  He  smiled  grimly  when  he  saw 
the  pretty  white  girl,  and  pointed  to  a  room 
in  the  blockhouse  where  she  should  be  placed 
for  safe  keeping.  One  of  his  henchmen  un- 
barred the  heavy  oaken  door,  and  Georgie 
was  borne  inside  and  seated  with  her  back 
leaning  against  the  wall.  Her  hands  and 
feet  were  tied,  but  she  was  glad  to  be  out  of 
the  clutches  of  the  burly  savages.  They  went 
out,  slammed  and  barred  the  door,  leaving 
her  in  the  darkness. 

After  her  eyes  had  gotten  used  to  the 
gloom  she  noticed  a  crack  in  the  log  wall, 
which  let  in  a  little  light.  It  helped  her  to 
see  that  another  bound  captive  was  in  prison 
with  her.  He  was  a  large  heavy-set  man, 
but  she  could  not  judge  his  appearance,  as 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  181 

he  had  a  ten-days'  growth  of  beard,  and  his 
eyes  were  closed,  being  fast  asleep. 

After  an  hour  he  woke,  rubbed  his  eyes, 
uttering  a  suppressed  cry  in  French  as  he  did 
so.  Her  fellow-captive  was  none  other  than 
her  former  husband,  Bernon  Dupre.  Georgie 
was  equally  surprised,  but  not  agreeably. 
She  knew  that  Bernon  had  several  scores  to 
settle  with  her,  and  she  loved  her  present 
spouse,  Balzer  Minnich,  very  much. 

She  pretended  not  to  notice  him,  but  the 
Frenchman  talked  so  loud  that  she  had  to 
answer  for  fear  of  attracting  the  attention 
of  the  Indians  outside.  The  diminishment  of 
the  streak  of  light  in  the  crack  in  the  wall 
told  the  prisoners  that  day  was  waning. 

When  it  became  totally  dark  Bernon  rolled 
himself  over  close  to  where  she  sat,  whisper- 
ing to  her  that  he  intended  to  free  himself 
in  a  few  minutes,  and  would  take  her  along 
if  she  would  go  with  him  as  his  wife.  He 
said  he  had  heard  long  ago  that  she  was  alive 
and  happy  and  nothing  could  be  better  than 
she  bestow  some  of  this  happiness  on  him, 
her  rightful  husband.  Georgie  shook  her 


182  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

head,  bobbing  about  her  masses  of  naturally 
curling  black  hair.  Further  than  that  she 
would  take  no  notice  of  him.  Bernon  made 
a  long  entreaty,  but  as  women  are  never 
given  to  pitying  men  they  hate,  his  eloquence 
was  wasted. 

Tiring  at  length,  the  Frenchman  began  to 
put  into  effect  his  plan  for  freedom.  There 
was  a  sharp  stone  imbedded  in  the  ground, 
and  he  laid  his  entire  weight  on  it,  using  it  as 
a  saw  to  cut  off  the  leathern  bands  which 
held  him.  It  was  a  slow  process,  but  in  two 
hours  he  was  loose.  He  came  over  to  Georgie 
again,  begging  her  to  go  away  with  him. 
She  turned  her  pretty  head  away  in  con- 
tempt. The  prisoner  lost  his  temper,  grabbed 
her  by  the  hair  and  slapped  her  face  until 
she  lapsed  into  insensibility.  Then  he  un- 
tied her  ropes,  and  stood  her  on  her  feet 
against  the  wall.  He  moved  cautiously  to 
the  door,  armed  with  the  heavy  rock  pried 
from  the  floor. 

Desperate  to  the  point  of  demoniac 
strength,  he  threw  his  weight  of  two  hun- 
dred pounds  against  it,  which  had  to  give 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  183 

way.  As  he  plunged  through  the  opening, 
Georgie,  in  a  semi-conscious  state,  toppled 
forward  and  fell  on  her  face.  The  French- 
man used  the  rock  to  brain  the  sleepy  Indian 
sentry,  and  got  as  far  as  the  stockade  wall, 
which  he  attempted  to  scale.  With  one  leg 
over,  another  Indian  watcher  shot  him  in  the 
back,  and  he  fell,  breaking  his  neck,  and  dy- 
ing instantly. 

A  horde  of  furious  Indians  rushed  to  the 
prison,  finding  Georgie  on  her  knees,  mutter- 
ing to  herself  incoherently.  Seeing  that  she 
was  unbound,  and  thinking  she  had  only  held 
back  through  fear,  one  of  them  rashly  struck 
at  her  with  his  tomahawk,  inflicting  a  horri- 
ble gash  in  her  breast. 

In  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  Chief  Ho-non- 
wah,  wrapped  in  a  red  blanket,  pushed  his 
way  to  where  Georgie  was  lying,  with  the 
blood  from  her  gaping  breast  soaking  into 
her  thick  black  curls.  He  took  her  in  his 
arms,  and  held  his  hand  to  close  the  wound. 
In  her  dying  breath  she  told  him  she  had 
not  wanted  to  escape,  that  the  other  prisoner 


184  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

had  unbound  her,  and  had  tried  to  compel 
her  to  go. 

Evidently  the  great  war  chief  believed 
her,  for  he  held  her  tenderly,  calling  her  his 
"little  brave,"  until  her  naturally  white  face 
grew  green  with  death.  He  laid  her  on  his 
blanket  with  her  dainty  white  hands  folded, 
and  loudly  called  for  revenge  on  her  slayer. 

The  other  Indians,  to  save  their  own  necks, 
indicated  the  rattle-headed  murderer,  so  he 
was  seized  by  the  giant  Ho-non-wah,  who 
first  cut  out  his  tongue,  and  then  severed  his 
windpipe.  But  the  poor  Georgie  must  have 
had  some  regrets  at  dying  in  the  arms  of  an 
Indian  chief,  after  detesting  the  entire  race 
for  so  many  years. 


XIII. 
BILLY  ANDERSON'S  GHOST 


FELT  considerably  relieved 
on  hearing  that  the  forest 
fires  last  spring  had  swept 
across  the  late  Billy  Ander- 
son's clearing  back  of  Mc- 
Elhattan  Mountain,  and 
completely  obliterated  his 
deserted  mansion,  for  I 
knew  that  then  his  unquiet 
spirit  would  be  at  rest. 

"Billy  Anderson's  Ghost"  was  a  familiar 
figure  at  sundown,  wandering  about  his  briar 
grown,  brushy  gardens,  and  quickening  his 
step  when  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  ap- 
proached, either  from  the  direction  of  Pine 
Station  or  from  Sugar  Valley.  It  would 
stride  out  to  the  garden  gate,  and  wait  until 
the  carriage  came  into  full  view,  then  sigh, 
and  turn  its  back  and  walk  away  with  un- 
steady step  until  lost  among  the  briars  and 


185 


186  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

brambles  and  twisted  cherry  trees  at  the  far 
side  of  the  garden. 

An  impressive  apparation  was  Billy  And- 
erson's ghost,  dressed  as  it  was  in  a  heavy 
black  broadcloth  suit,  cut  after  the  fashion 
of  1850,  wearing  a  wide  brimmed  black 
slouch  hat,  and  carrying  a  massive  gold- 
headed  cane.  The  pale  face  was  almost 
hidden  in  the  bushy  growth  of  white  beard. 
During  his  long  life  (he  was  over  eighty  when 
he  died)  old  Billy  was  known  as  a  well- 
dressed  man,  that  is  from  mountaineer 
standards,  and  for  the  greater  part  of  his 
days  he  always  quit  work  in  plenty  of  time 
before  sundown  to  wash  carefully  and  garb 
himself  in  his  suit  of  heavy  black  broad- 
cloth. Then  he  would  wander  in  his  garden, 
pricking  up  his  ears  at  the  sound  of  a  carri- 
age, and  watching  for  its  approach  along  the 
narrow  mountain  road. 

He  never  paid  any  attention  to  a  prop- 
timber  wagon  or  paper-wood  truck,  his  ears 
were  so  attuned  to  the  different  sounds  of 
the  horses'  hoofs  and  the  rumble  of  wheels. 
But  he  was  always  on  the  lookout  for  sur- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  187 

ries,  buggies  and  carryalls.  These  crossed  the 
mountain  infrequently,  especially  at  sundown, 
except  during  the  camp  meeting  time  at  Pine 
or  Booneville.  After  his  death  his  unsatis- 
fied spirit  displayed  the  same  discernment  in 
vehicles,  only  to  a  still  finer  degree,  never 
noticing  the  approach  of  the  same  turnout 
a  second  time.  The  peculiar  patter  of  each 
individual  hoof,  the  rattle  of  each  set  of 
wheels,  and  the  squeak  of  each  pair  of 
springs  seemed  indelibly  printed  in  his 
ghostly  mind. 

When  he  was  alive,  and  the  same  rule  was 
maintained  by  his  spirit,  he  never  came  out 
on  stormy  evenings.  Of  course  if  a  late 
wind  blew  back  the  clouds  after  a  shower 
and  disclosed  the  pale  gold  afterglow,  or  if  a 
single  flare  of  cerise  along  the  mountain  top 
betokened  the  last  effort  of  the  sun  to  assert 
itself  at  the  close  of  a  lowery  day,  he  ap- 
peared, but  on  nights  when  there  was  rain, 
or  snow,  or  sleet,  all  was  dark  about  the 
weather-beaten  mansion. 

Despite  the  fact  that  it  had  been  empty 
for  over  ten  years,  the  old  house  retained  its 


188  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

signs  of  solidity  and  completeness,  that  made 
it  noted  as  the  most  pretentious  structure  on 
the  mountain  when  it  was  built,  over  sixty 
years  ago.  It  was  the  first  house  on  the 
mountain  to  have  a  central  hall,  discarding 
the  old  custom  of  two  separate  front  en- 
trances side  by  side  which  led  into  the  living 
rooms  which  were  joined  by  doors  within. 

Built  of  the  best  white  pine  and  white  oak 
lumber,  of  a  quality  almost  impossible  to 
obtain  these  days,  it  would  have  stood  for 
centuries  had  not  the  fire  effaced  it  in  its 
uncheckable  course.  Most  every  stranger 
who  passed  by  the  mansion  wondered  why 
anyone  would  invest  so  much  money  in  such 
a  lonely  region.  Some  few  called  it  "Ander- 
son's Folly'  at  the  time  it  was  built,  but  its 
impressive  outlines,  standing  half  hidden  in  a 
vast  orchard  of  old  apple  trees,  its  panoramic 
background  of  evergreen-clad  mountains  ex- 
cited awe  rather  than  ridicule  in  those  who 
saw  it. 

Few  were  aware  that  it  was  a  love  story 
which  caused  the  construction  of  the  house, 
and  the  clearing  of  so  much  land,  and  the 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


planting  of  so  many  hundreds  of  fruit  trees. 
When  Billy  was  twenty-one  he  came  into  a 
"fortune"  of  five  thousand  dollars  left  him 
by  an  uncle  for  whom  he  was  named.  This 
uncle  had  been  a  merchant  in  Philadelphia, 
and  Billy  was  the  apple  of  his  eye. 

The  young  man's  two  older  brothers  were 
not  mentioned  in  the  will,  and  they  confided 
to  their  father,  a  very  prosperous  farmer  at 
Dunnsburg,  that  it  was  discouraging  to  see 
one  of  the  family  possessing  more  money 
than  the  others.  The  father  to  appease  them 
promised  to  leave  all  his  property  to  the  older 
boys ;  to  this  the  "heir"  acquiesced,  and  peace 
reigned  in  the  family.  Billy  had  become  quite 
a  noted  horseman  through  his  ownership  of 
a  colt  called  Sea  Turtle,  which  had  an  un- 
beaten record  in  Central  Pennsylvania.  He 
raised  the  animal  himself,  the  sire  being  an 
imported  English  thoroughbred  owned  in 
Jersey  Shore,  which  was  said  to  have  won 
the  great  Derby  stakes  in  Epsom. 

One  Fourth  of  July  there  was  a  patriotic 
celebration  at  Jersey  Shore,  probably  accel- 
erated by  the  recent  victories  in  the  war  with 


190  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

Mexico,  and  a  championship  horse  race  was 
included  on  the  program.  Horses  represent- 
ing Williamsport,  Sunbury,  and  Shamokin 
were  entered  to  race  against  the  up-river 
champion  Sea  Turtle. 

The  race  was  twelve  miles,  from  the  town 
building  to  the  "half-way  house,"  six  miles 
distant,  and  return.  It  was  "go  as  you 
please,"  but  most  of  the  jockeys  kept  their 
mounts  at  a  trot.  Sea  Turtle  ridden  by  a 
small  colored  boy  named  Smiles  won  by  half 
a  mile,  and  his  right  to  the  championship 
was  established. 

Billy's  family  being  very  religious  felt 
keenly  the  notoriety  brought  on  them  by  the 
young  man's  interest  in  horse-racing,  and 
begged  him  to  give  it  up  and  settle  down  to 
farming  like  his  brothers. 

After  many  discussions  he  gave  in  and 
bought  from  his  father  the  three  hundred 
acre  tract  of  land  back  of  the  lower  mountain 
at  McElhattan.  It  was  a  wilderness  in  those 
days,  but  Billy  put  up  a  small  log  cabin  and 
set  to  work  to  make  it  "blossom  like  the  rose." 
Having  capital  he  was  able  to  make  better 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  191 

Drogress  than  his  neighbors  on  the  moun- 
tain, and  after  six  years  of  conscientious  ef- 
fort he  had  a  nice  farm  cleared  and  fenced, 
hundreds  of  fruit  trees  started,  commodious 
farm  buidings  and  a  good  line  of  live  stock. 
He  had  never  thought  much  about  getting 
married,  but  when  his  family  saw  his  pros- 
perous looking  estate,  they  began  to  urge 
him  to  find  himself  a  wife. 

This  was  a  dangerous  proceeding,  as  it 
often  results  in  the  staid  single  man  marry- 
ing an  uncongenial  person  just  to  settle  the 
matter,  or  else  his  long-pent-up  emotions  are 
apt  to  suffer  to  the  utmost  if  the  object  of 
his  sudden  adoration  fails  to  reciprocate. 
Early  one  winter,  after  farm  work  was  fin- 
ished, he  yielded  to  an  invitation  from  one  of 
his  aunts  to  visit  her  in  the  Lykens  Valley, 
where  she  had  a  large  farm  on  the  banks  of 
the  Wicanisco  Creek. 

It  was  a  comfortable  place,  a  square  stone 
house  with  a  red  roof,  an  enormous  bank 
barn,  and  two  hundred  acres  of  rolling  mea- 
dows, here  and  there  interspersed  with 
groves  of  stately  oak  and  walnut  trees. 


192  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

There  was  good  society  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  Billy,  despite  the  fact  he  was  nearing 
thirty  and  had  seen  nothing  but  hard  work 
for  the  past  six  years,  soon  began  acting  as 
gay  as  any  of  the  boys  of  twenty.  Most  of 
the  entertainments  were  in  some  way  con- 
nected with  the  churches  with  which  the 
valley  teemed,  and  to  the  present  generation 
might  seem  far  from  exciting. 

Still,  to  the  young  man  from  McElhattan 
mountain,  it  was  like  a  true  taste  of  the  "big 
world."  The  Presbyterians  were  giving  a 
church  supper  or  sociable  one  evening  in 
January.  It  took  place  in  the  Sunday  school 
room,  a  vast  high-ceilinged,  high-windowed, 
long-shuttered  apartment  back  of  the  main 
edifice.  Trestles  with  boards  across  were 
the  improvised  tables,  and  pews  had  been 
dragged  in  to  seat  the  guests.  Billy  escorted 
his  aunt  and  two  of  his  girl  cousins  to  the 
affair,  and  as  they  entered  the  lamp-lit  room 
all  eyes  were  turned  upon  the  young 
stranger. 

The  valley  was  still  far  enough  off  the 
beaten  path  to  make  the  advent  of  anyone 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  193 

from  a  distance  a  novelty,  especially  a  per- 
son on  pleasure  bent,  as  most  visitors  came 
to  trade  horses,  buy  cattle,  sell  jewelry,  or 
preach  a  new  gospel. 

Billy  felt  embarrassed  and  did  not  lift  his 
eyes  as  he  passed  along  the  tables,  and  took 
a  vacant  seat  by  the  side  of  his  relatives. 
He  remained  silent,  and  downcast  for  several 
minutes,  until  his  aunt  caught  him  by  the 
coat  sleeve  to  remind  him  that  one  of  the 
waitresses  was  standing  by  patiently  to  take 
his  order  for  supper  and  whispered  to  him 
that  his  cousins  were  very  hungry.  He 
looked  up  at  the  pretty  black-eyed  waitress, 
who  recited  the  list  of  refreshments,  and  he 
ordered  everything  like  a  true  "lavish 
stranger."  He  was  about  to  drop  his  eyes 
again,  but  instead  glanced  across  the  table, 
-and  his  love  story  had  begun.  There  sat  di- 
rectly opposite  him — he  often  thought  in  the 
future  how  queer  it  was  he  hadn't  noticed  her 
sooner — a  beautiful  blonde  girl  attired  in  a 
red  silk  dress. 

Accustomed  as  he  was  to  the  sombre  dark 
eyes  and  pale  faces  of  the  girls  in  the  moun- 


194  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

tains,  with  their  dull  calicos  and  worsteds, 
the  dazzling  loveliness  of  this  young  beauty, 
with  her  gray-blue  eyes,  rosy  complexion, 
profusion  of  golden  hair,  and  that  marvel- 
lous red  dress,  seemed  entirely  different  and 
superior.  He  looked  at  her  so  intently  his 
aunt  sought  to  save  embarrassment  by  speak- 
ing to  the  lovely  girl,  whom  she  seemed  to 
know  well. 

She  introduced  Billy  to  her,  saying 
"Bonnie,  this  is  my  nephew,  Mr.  William 
Anderson  from  Clinton  county,  about  whom 
we  talk  so  much;  he  is  here  on  a  visit;  you 
must  help  make  his  stay  pleasant."  Bonnie 
replied  that  she  was  only  too  glad  to  do  all 
she  could,  and  hoped  that  his  cousins  would 
bring  him  over  to  her  home  soon  to  spend 
an  evening.  The  balance  of  the  time  at  the 
supper  passed  off  famously,  and  the  young 
blonde  and  her  mother,  and  Billy  and  his 
relatives  were  the  last  to  leave  the  table.  The 
young  couple  parted  on  the  most  cordial 
terms,  and  Billy  was  all  smiles  the  entire  dis- 
tance home. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  195 

"But  I  forgot  to  ask  her  last  name,  I  was 
so  excited,"  he  said  to  his  aunt  after  they  had 
gotten  into  the  carriage. 

"Why  her  name's  Bonnie  Orwig,"  she 
answered;  "she  lives  at  that  fine  farm  just 
before  you  come  to  Elizabethville ;  her  father 
is  the  most  successful  farmer  in  the  valley; 
her  mother  was  a  McCamant,  one  of  the  old- 
est families  in  this  county.  She's  only  eigh- 
teen years  old,  but  she  graduated  last  year 
at  the  head  of  her  class  from  the  Locust  Hill 
Seminary  at  Chambersburg." 

"And  she  seemed  to  fancy  you  a  lot," 
chimed  in  one  of  the  cousins. 

In  this  happy  frame  of  mind,  he  always 
called  it  the  happiest  night  of  life,  Billy  re- 
tired. In  the  morning  he  was  the  first  down- 
stairs, and  all  day  long  blushed  and  smiled 
whenever  the  name  of  Bonnie  Orwig  was 
mentioned. 

A  couple  of  days  passed  before  the  prom- 
ised visit  to  the  Orwig  home  materialized; 
it  seemed  like  an  age  to  the  young  man,  even 
though  the  anticipation  kept  him  keyed  up  to 
a  high  pitch  of  joyfulness.  There  was  a  new 


196  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

moon,  and  the  air  was  crisp  and  frosty,  when 
'Billy  and  the  girls  emerged  from  the  com- 
fortable mansion  and  started  in  the  sleigh 
to  make  the  call.  He  looked  over  his  left 
shoulder,  and  made  his  wish;  everything 
boded  well  for  the  future  on  such  a  clear,  in- 
vigorating night. 

Bonnie  was  in  the  cheery  sitting  room  when 
they  arrived,  looking  dainty  and  charming 
in  a  white  satin  dress  and  greeted  them  most 
cordially.  After  fifteen  minutes  of  general 
talk  the  cousins  withdrew  and  went  upstairs 
to  see  Bonnie's  mother,  so  the  young  lover 
was  left  alone  with  the  beautiful  being. 

When  the  girls  returned,  and  it  was  time 
to  leave,  things  had  progressed  very  favor- 
ably. That  Billy  was  in  earnest  was  shown 
when  he  refused  to  discuss  the  question 
further  than  that  he  was  "making  satisfac- 
tory progress. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  the  young  couple 
announced  their  betrothal,  and  both  seemed 
very  much  in  love.  Billy  outlined  his  plans 
for  the  future  to  his  beloved,  and  she  was 
deeply  interested  in  everything  he  told  her. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  197 

He  would  return  to  Clinton  county,  and  build 
a  suitable  house,  modeled  after  her  own 
home,  and  when  it  was  finished  she  could 
come  there  with  her  father  and  see  it;  her 
father,  she  had  once  said,  took  a  trip  up 
country  every  June  to  inspect  some  timber- 
land  he  owned  in  the  Seven  Mountains,  and 
he  would  travel  down  with  them  and  then 
they  would  be  married. 

All  this  seemed  ideal,  and  sort  of  assuaged 
his  grief  at  the  parting.  When  he  got  back 
to  the  farm  he  set  to  work  with  redoubled 
energy,  and  by  the  time  the  frost  was  out  of 
the  ground,  had  in  readiness  all  the  masonry 
for  the  foundation  and  lumber  for  the  con- 
struction of  the  new  mansion. 

The  thought  of  a  woman  is  the  force  that 
arouses  the  best  energy  in  man ;  it  makes  the 
artist  create  immortal  paintings,  the  jockey 
ride  to  victory,  and  the  raftsman  steer  safely 
through  perilous  currents.  With  Billy  And- 
erson it  caused  the  construction  of  a  garden 
spot  in  a  wilderness.  By  the  first  of  June 
the  outside  of  the'  house  was  completed,  and 
painted,  some  of  the  rooms  even  had  been 


198  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

plastered.  Flowers  were  planted  in  the  front 
yard,  and  gravelled  walks  laid  to  all  corners 
of  the  garden,  the  yard  and  garden  being  en- 
closed by  neat  whitewashed  picket  fences. 

A  continuous  correspondence  had  been  go- 
ing on  between  the  young  couple,  and  Billy 
delighted  telling  his  sweetheart  every  detail 
of  the  progress  of  construction  and  improve- 
ment. In  mid-June  a  letter  came  from  Bonnie 
saying  she  would  arrive  with  her  father 
"about  sundown  next  Wednesday,"  which 
was  five  days  from  the  date  of  the  letter. 
They  would  drive  all  the  way  from  her  home 
behind  her  father's  new  pair  of  road  horses. 
Billy  was  overjoyed,  and  on  the  appointed 
date,  just  at  the  last  moments  of  the  Golden 
Hour,  when  the  afternoon  sun  was  beginning 
to  set  behind  the  western  mountains,  he 
emerged  from  the  mansion,  clad  in  a  brand 
new  suit  of  broadcloth,  and  carrying  the 
goldheaded  cane  Bonnie  had  given  him  as  a 
keepsake  when  he  had  fitted  the  betrothal 
ring  on  her  finger  the  day  he  left  the  Lykens 
Valley. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  199 

Sunset  came  with  all  its  indescribable 
glories,  its  tints  deepened,  shadows  fell,  dusk 
crept  into  the  fence  corners  and  patches  of 
timber.  The  whippoorwill  began  its  plain- 
tive melody  in  the  hollow.  Billy  waited  all 
the  while  by  the  gate,  but  not  a  sound  could 
he  hear  of  an  approaching  vehicle. 

After  the  last  streaks  of  light  had  disap- 
peared from  the  sky,  and  darkness  prevailed, 
he  turned  disappointedly  and  spent  a  couple 
of  hours  wandering  in  the  young  orchard  at 
the  back  of  the  house.  He  hoped  he  would 
get  a  letter  the  next  day,  but  his  hired  man 
returned  from  the  postoffice  empty  handed. 
He  dressed  himself  that  afternoon,  and 
waited  at  the  gate  until  dark. 

This  he  continued  to  do  for  several  weeks. 
Sometimes  he  would  be  thrilled  to  hear  the 
sound  of  hoofbeats  and  the  creaking  of 
wheels  on  the  stony  uneven  road.  He  would 
quietly  open  the  gate  and  step  outside  until 
it  came  into  sight,  then  he  would  turn  away 
wistfully  and  sadly. 

One  evening  while  he  stood  by  the  gate  a 
carryall  drew  up,  containing  his  nearest 


200  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

neighbor,  Amos  De  Vow,  who  handed  him  a 
letter  addressed  in  a  trembling  hand.  He 
thanked  the  neighbor  and  strolled  to  the  back 
of  the  yard  to  read  it,  as  if  some  instinct  told 
him  it  contained  bad  news,  and  he  must  be 
alone  to  receive  it. 

The  letter  was  from  Bonnie  Orwig's 
mother,  and  told  how  she  had  eloped  with 
Jacob  Braunfels,  a  young  drover  whom  she 
had  met  but  twice,  the  night  before  she  was 
to  start  on  her  visit  to  her  fiance.  She  had 
written  home  from  Philadelphia  asking  to  be 
forgiven,  adding  that  her  mother  should  no- 
tify Billy  of  her  act.  The  reasons  she  gave 
were  "Jacob  is  younger  and  gayer ;  the  more 
I  thought  of  Billy,  the  firmer  I  became  con- 
vinced he  was  too  serious-minded  to  make  me 
happy." 

It  seemed  an  unsatisfactory  reason,  but 
the  unhappy  lover  figured  out  that  his  years 
of  toil  back  of  McElhattan  Mountain  had 
probably  crushed  out  most  of  the  sunshine 
in  his  soul — now  the  rest  had  gone.  Next 
morning  he  was  hard  at  work,  and  none  of 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  201 

the  hands  guessed  anything  had  happened, 
though  he  rarely  smiled  again. 

Every  clear  afternoon,  as  if  in  the  vain 
hope  she  would  yet  come  to  him,  he  would  at- 
tire himself  in  his  broadcloth  suit,  soft  hat 
and  carrying  the  gold-headed  cane,  take  a 
walk  around  the  gardens,  admiring  nature  in 
all  her  beauties,  and  dreaming  of  past  joys. 
Unconsciously  he  would  pause  and  listen 
every  time  he  heard  the  sound  of  an  approch- 
ing  carriage.  He  kept  at  work  all  through  his 
long  life,  and  but  for  his  solitary  stroll  at 
sundown  lived  the  life  of  the  other  men  of 
the  mountain.  His  housekeeper  found  him 
dead  in  bed  clasping  to  his  heart  a  faded 
daguerreotype,  the  portrait  of  a  fair-haired 
girl.  And  then  the  released  spirit  took  up 
the  vigil  until  the  forest  fires  "removed  the 
ancient  landmarks." 


XIV. 
THE  DREAMER 


E  could  easily  see  that  the 
new  hand  on  the  sawmill 
was  not  an  ordinary  sort  of 
individual.  Physically  he 
was  a  great,  broad-should- 
ered, sandy-haired  man, 
vl  »J!  M  it  and  a  match  for  the  biggest 

1     ir    I     r 

r  I  of  the  loggers  or  mill-men, 

and  intellectually  he  seemed 
cast  in  an  unusual  mould.  Gloomy  and  taci- 
turn, it  was  extremely  difficult  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  him,  and  he  seemed  to  be  more 
at  home  with  the  lumbermen  than  with  those 
on  a  level  with  him  through  education. 

A  man  like  this  is  apt  to  have  something 
to  conceal,  which  made  us  all  the  more  desir- 
ous to  be  friendly  with  him.  At  the  back  of 
the  main  framework  of  the  mill  someone  had 
rolled  a  large  hemlock  log  close  to  the  struc- 
ture, and  there  he  would  sit  by  himself  on 
the  still  summer  evenings  smoking  a  briar- 

202 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  203 

wood  pipe.  He  was  always  meditative  and 
still,  even  when  the  rest  of  the  crew  grew 
hilarious  over  their  card  or  quoit  games. 

For  some  reason  or  other,  he  was  well- 
liked  by  all  the  men,  despite  the  fact  that  he 
never  took  part  in  their  sports,  and  his  con- 
versation with  them  seemed  infrequent.  We 
inquired  of  one  of  the  teamsters,  who  had 
worked  in  the  woods  all  his  life,  if  he  knew 
where  the  new  man,  who  called  himself  Bern- 
ard Carroll,  had  come  from,  and  were  sur- 
prised to  have  him  say  that  Carroll  and  he 
had  worked  together  on  another  lumber  job 
in  Nine  Mile  Hollow  in  Potter  county,  seven 
years  before.  He  was,  therefore,  not  a  new- 
comer to  the  lumber  woods,  although  the  last 
man  to  hit  the  job  at  this  particular  camp. 

"He  drinks  a  lot  at  times,  and  gets  quarrel- 
some," said  the  old  teamster,  "and  don't  be 
surprised  if  he  goes  to  Lock  Haven  some  Sat- 
urday night  and  never  comes  back ;  that's  the 
kind  he  is.  He  has  a  love-scrape  on  his  mind, 
and  no  man's  worth  a  curse  that  has  that  eat- 
ing into  him." 


204  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


This  quickened  our  interest  in  the  big 
silent  man,  and  several  times  we  passed  by 
where  he  was  sitting  on  the  log,  and  wished 
him  a  cheery  "good  evening,"  hoping  to  draw 
him  into  a  conversation.  He  replied  in  a  per- 
functory manner,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
do  but  to  pass  on. 

On  the  evening  before  the  Fourth  of  July 
we  were  driving  across  the  railroad  tracks  at 
the  Pennsylvania  station,  in  Lock  Haven,  and 
noticed  the  big  fellow  waiting  for  the  down 
train  which  was  then  over  an  hour  late.  We 
signalled  to  him,  and  he  came  up  to  the 
buggy,  with  such  alacrity  that  we  offered  him 
a  ride  to  camp.  His  mood  evidently  was  dif- 
ferent, as  he  gladly  accepted  the  invitation. 

The  night  was  warm,  and  "Bonnie,"  the 
little  black  horse,  pretty  well  fagged,  conse- 
quently most  of  the  distance  was  made  at  a 
walk.  This  gave  us  a  splendid  opportunity 
to  become  acquainted  with  the  "man  of  mys- 
tery." We  had  recently  had  a  love  story  our- 
selves, and  the  afterglow  on  the  Bald  Eagle 
Creek,  the  broad,  well-tilled  valley,  and  the 
Allegheny  mountains  beyond,  brought  back 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  205 

the  train  of  sentimental  memories,  and  in- 
fused them  into  the  conversation. 

Our  talk  had  already  become  more  or  less 
intimate  when  the  big  fellow  remarked  sadly 
that  this  was  the  nineteenth  anniversary  of 
the  one  great  disappointment  of  his  life.  "We 
ought  to  forget  such  things,  but  they  grow 
keener  and  more  alive  with  each  passing 
year." 

"Really,"  he  went  on,  "I  botched  up  my  life 
in  wonderful  style;  it  may  be  too  late  now, 
but  I  had  not  strength  to  shake  off  the  sense 
of  error  at  the  time  it  occurred." 

"I  was  born  in  Baltimore,"  he  continued  to 
reminisce,  "forty-two  years  ago  last  May, 
and  for  the  last  twenty  years  have  been 
knocking  about  doing  most  everything, 
mostly  trying  to  forget.  I  always  was  im- 
pulsive, and  from  the  first  my  impulses  were 
wrong,  and  led  me  through  a  zig-zag,  unsat- 
isfactory course.  My  father  sent  me  to  the 
University  of  Pennsylvania,  where  I  joined 
the  best  fraternity,  and  was  soon  the  centre 
of  a  gay  crowd  who  had  plenty  of  money  to 
spend.  In  those  days  I  used  to  look  down  at 


206  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

the  class  of  people  who  are  my  only  associates 
now.  I  well  recall  one  autumn  afternoon  1 
heard  shots  fired  near  my  father's  country 
house  on  the  Eastern  Shore,  and  how  I  hur- 
ried down  the  lawn  in  time  to  find  two  lads, 
they  had  been  in  the  class  below  me  in  college, 
shooting  rabbits  in  one  of  our  fields.  As  they 
did  not  belong  to  a  'swell'  fraternity,  I  did 
not  think  much  of  them,  and  I  drove  them  off 
the  estate,  using  some  pretty  harsh  language. 
They  were  better  gentlemen  than  I,  as  I  look 
back  now,  for  they  never  answered  me  but 
walked  quietly  away.  Now  I  recall  their  pleas- 
ant faces,  what  clean  looking  boys  they  were, 
and  wish  I  could  meet  them  and  tell  them  how 
sorry  I  am  for  my  conduct. 

"My  college  days  were  cut  short  by  an 
attack  of  pneumonia  following  a  prolonged 
debauch,  and  I  almost  died.  I  emerged  in  a 
penitent  condition,  and  being  the  son  of  good 
Catholics,  conceived  the  idea  of  becoming  a 
priest.  All  my  old  college  friends  were  sur- 
prised, but  my  mother  said  she  had  always 
felt  in  secret  that  this  was  to  be  my  vocation. 
I  was  enrolled  as  a  student  in  a  seminary  that 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  207 

fall,  and  for  several  months  made  amazing 
progress.  My  instructors  were  delighted,  es- 
pecially since  I  came  from  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  families  in  the  state,  and  one 
old  priest  patted  me  on  the  shoulder  and  pre- 
dicted I  would  some  day  receive  the  Red  Hat. 
I  had  become  very  friendly  with  a  fellow 
student  named  McCafferty,  and  went  with 
him  to  his  home  in  Western  Pennsylvania. 
That  was  the  turning  point  in  my  career, 
though  I  doubt  if  I  would  ever  have  become 
a  priest.  In  the  town  where  he  lived  I  met 
one  of  my  fraternity  brothers  from  the  Uni- 
versity, and  spent  more  time  with  him  than 
I  did  with  the  hospitable  McCafferty.  De- 
spite my  black  suit  and  high  vest,  that  gave 
me  a  semi-priestly  look,  my  University  chum 
was  determined  I  should  meet  some  girls.  At 
first  I  told  him  I  had  'cut  all  that  out,'  but  one 
afternoon,  as  we  were  driving  through  town, 
I  saw  a  girl  I  did  want  to  meet.  She  was 
standing  on  the  corner,  talking  to  another 
girl  who  was  leading  a  child,  and  the  kindly 
interest  the  girl  I  admired  displayed  toward 
the  child  touched  my  heart  almost  as  much 


208  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

as  her  blonde  beauty.  On  one  of  my  college 
vacations  I  had  gone  to  Europe,  and  was 
joined  in  Paris  by  a  friend  who  was  secre- 
tary of  one  of  our  legations.  In  Berlin  I  was 
particularly  taken  by  the  fine  collection  of 
paintings  by  Watteau,  and  there  was  a  figure 
of  a  blonde  girl  in  the  one  called  'L' Amour  au 
Theatre  Italien'  in  the  National  Gallery,  that 
won  my  heart  completely.  I  said  to  my 
friend,  If  I  ever  see  anyone  who  looks  like 
that,  I  will  marry  her." 

"Well,  the  girl  standing  on  the  corner  was 
the  exact  counterpart  of  Watteau 's  blonde 
beauty.  I  am  sure  she  was,  for  I  had  stood 
spellbound  before  the  painting  for  hours,  and 
now  I  was  studying  to  become  a  priest.  That 
night  I  changed  my  vest  and  was  taken  to 
call  on  the  exquisite  being.  I  was  surprised 
to  find  her  as  intelligent  as  she  was  beautiful ; 
she  was  one  of  the  very  few  women  I  have 
met  who  expressed  original  thoughts.  Bangs 
were  in  style  that  year,  and  I  will  never  for- 
get the  cute  little  blonde  bangs  she  wore.  She 
was  'chic'  from  head  to  foot,  and  more  like  a 
Parisienne  than  a  dweller  in  a  provincial 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  209 

western  Pennsylvania  town.  We  were  to- 
gether for  the  remaining  time  I  was  in  town, 
and  I  told  her  I  loved  her,  and  she  said  she 
loved  me. 

"The  night  I  returned  to  school  I  con- 
fessed to  her  I  was  studying  for  the  priest- 
hood, but  would  drop  my  course  so  that  I 
could  marry  her.  She  showed  her  discern- 
ment by  saying  she  had  guessed  that  the  first 
time  she  saw  me.  After  my  return  to  the 
school  we  wrote  each  other  every  day.  All 
went  well  for  ten  days,  and  then  I  got  a  letter 
from  her  saying  that  McCafferty's  mother 
had  told  her  mother  that  I  was  studying  to  be 
a  priest,  and  that  she  had  commanded  her  to 
have  nothing  further  to  do  with  me.  She 
added  that  henceforth  I  should  write  her  to 
the  home  of  a  friend, 

"The  next  day  I  received  no  letter  nor  the 
day  following.  Time  passed  on,  several 
weeks  elapsed  and  all  was  silence.  I  be- 
came alarmed  and  trumped  up  a  lie  that  I 
must  go  home,  and  hurried  to  the  Western 
Pennsylvania  town;  I  met  my  fraternity 
mate  and  he  learned  for  me  that  the  beauti- 


210  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

ful  girl  had  gone  away  for  a  visit,  but  he 
could  not  learn  where.  There  was  nothing 
for  me  to  do  but  to  return  to  school,  which  I 
did,  vowing  to  forget  my  disappointment  in 
my  clerical  studies.  But  though  I  came  out 
brilliantly  in  the  mid-year  examination,  my 
heart  was  sad,  and  I  chafed  the  bonds  that 
were  tightening  themselves  around  my  young 
life. 

"The  climax  came  when  my  friend  wrote 
that  the  girl  had  returned  from  her  visit, 
I  went  to  the  principals  of  the  school,  and 
announced  that  after  sober  reflection,  I  had 
decided  not  to  become  a  priest,  therefore 
must  leave  the  institution  walls  at  once.  They 
tried  to  persuade  me,  but  it  was  no  use.  I 
got  out  and  bought  a  suit  of  dark  grey  ma- 
terial and  started  again  to  try  and  consum- 
mate my  romance.  It  was  a  fine  morning 
in  May  as  I  climbed  up  the  steep  hill  leading 
to  her  home.  The  robins  and  larks  were 
singing,  there  was  an  odor  of  sweetness  and 
life  from  the  dandelions  and  fresh  grass. 

"Boldly  I  rang  the  bell.  I  had  a  long  wait, 
but  it  was  rewarded  by  the  door  being  opened 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  211 

by  the  beautiful  girl  herself.  On  one  of  her 
fingers  glistened  a  solitaire  diamond  ring, 
and  I  feared  the  worst  had  happened.  We 
went  in  the  parlor,  and  I  at  once  explained 
that  I  had  given  up  my  studies,  and,  passing 
through  the  town,  had  decided  to  stop  off  and 
see  her.  It  was  not  long  before  she  told  me 
that  she  had  met  a  man  while  on  her  visit 
in  January  whom  she  liked  very  much,  and 
having  been  urged  by  him  and  her  parents 
that  I  was  not  sincere  in  my  intentions  to 
give  up  my  studies,  had  become  engaged. 
I  felt  like  saying,  'You  should  have  been  will- 
ing to  go  through  fire  and  water  for  the  man 
you  loved,'  but  I  only  smiled  and  didn't. 

"After  a  pleasant  talk  lasting  several 
hours  I  said  goodbye ;  she  followed  me  to  the 
steps,  and  I  had  to  struggle  with  myself  not 
to  ask  her  to  break  with  her  new  lover  and 
come  with  me.  It  was  my  fate  that  I  should 
hold  my  tongue,  and  I  watched  the  door  close 
on  the  only  woman  I  ever  loved,  or  ever  will, 
before  I  started  heartbroken,  down  the  hill. 

"At  the  bottom  of  the  hill  was  a  hotel, 
and  then  and  there  I  started  on  a  booze  which 


212  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

lasted  a  month.  After  it  was  over,  I  went 
home,  but  my  parents  did  not  relish  my 
changed  prospects,  and  I  soon  started  on  my 
checkered  career  once  more.  They  still  send 
me  money  when  I  write  them,  but  we  are 
practically  strangers ;  my  only  homes  are  the 
lumber  camps  and  second-rate  hotels. 

"Last  night  I  had  a  dream  which  marks  the 
climax  of  the  part  of  my  life  I  have 
been  telling  you.  I  went  to  Lock  Haven 
with  a  view  of  celebrating  the  Fourth,  but 
when  I  got  to  the  first  saloon  I  suddenly  lost 
all  my  desire  for  strong  drink;  I  ordered  a 
ginger  ale,  instead.  After  supper  I  wandered 
around  town,  and  sat  until  dark  on  a  bench 
by  the  dam,  watching  the  river  and  the  sky. 
I  went  back  to  the  hotel,  but  could  not  drink, 
and,  to  escape  comments  from  some  of  the 
boys  from  the  camp,  went  to  bed. 

"I  seemed  to  fall  right  away  into  gentle 
slumber,  although  my  room  was  above  the 
bar,  where  there  was  a  terrible  racket.  As 
sleep  deepened  I  felt  myself  transformed 
from  the  shaky,  wooden  bed,  the  summer 
night,  and  the  narrow  room  with  its  one  win^ 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  213 

dow;  I  was  in  a  comfortable  upholstered 
easy  chair  by  the  side  of  an  open  grate,  in  a 
large,  high-ceilinged  room,  with  cases  of 
books  that  reached  from  floor  to  ceiling.  It 
was  winter  time,  and  there  was  no  other  light 
in  the  room  except  what  came  from  the  ruddy 
coal  fire. 

"Twilight  became  dusk  and  the  street 
lamps  were  lit  as  I  sat  and  meditated.  In- 
stead of  my  woodsman's  or  even  clerical 
garb,  I  wore  a  neat  dark  gray  suit ;  I  seemed 
a  prosperous  business  man  and  house-holder. 
I  heard  a  faint  rustle,  a  sound  essentially 
feminine,  and  upon  looking  lip  beheld  my  lost 
love,  attired  all  in  white,  coming  through  the 
door  from  an  inner  room.  The  fire  had  just 
ignited  a  fresh  chunk  of  :canhel  coal,  and  the 
glow  shone  full  in  her  face.  Her  beauty  was 
maturer  and  more  developed,  but  I  thought 
I  had  never  seen  her  looking  so  lovely. 

"  'What  are  you  doing  here,  all  alone  by 
the  fireside?'  she  said  laughingly.  Thinking 
about  you,  as  I  always  do,'  I  replied,  natur- 
ally enough.  She  got  down  on  her  knees  be- 
fore me  and  put  her  -beautiful  arms  around 


214  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

my  neck,  and  drawing  me  to  her,  kissed  me  on 
my  mouth  on  the  mustache  which  I  wore  in 
the  dream. 

"  'We  have  been  very  happy  together,'  she 
whispered.  'You  showed  the  grandest  fore- 
sight and  courage  to  take  me  away  that  morn- 
ing. I  should  never,  never  have  been  happy 
with  that  man  to  whom  I  was  engaged.  I 
thought  I  would  never  see  you  again,  and  was 
piqued  because  everyone  was  telling  me  how 
reprehensible  it  was  for  a  man  studying  for 
the  priesthood  to  have  devoted  himself  to 
me.' 

"  'Yes,'  I  answered,  'fate  decreed  I  should 
go  after  you ;  I  could  not  have  been  content 
to  live  without  you.' 

"There  were  footsteps  on  the  stairs  and  in 
the  hall,  and  merry  laughter  such  as  can  only 
come  from  very  young  folks.  The  door 
which  was  ajar,  was  opened,  and  three  young 
people  entered,  two  boys  and  a  girl ;  all  were 
very  tall,  very  slight,  and  very  handsome. 
The  boys  were  probably  twenty  and  eighteen, 
the  girl  sixteen.  Exact  counterparts  they  were 
of  their  beautiful  mother,  especially  the  girl, 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  215 

except  that  her  hair  was  darker  than  that  of 
their  mother's  and  more  the  color  of  mine. 

The  girl  was  the  first  to  speak,  saying 
gayly,  'Oh,  papa  and  mamma,  what  are  you 
doing  there  in  the  dark?'  'Repeating  our  love 
story,  as  we  always  do,'  was  my  lost  love's 
quick  reply.  The  young  folks  grouped  them- 
selves about  us  and  started  to  tell  of  an  en- 
tertainment out  at  the  Univeristy,  (the 
dream  was  evidently  laid  in  Philadelphia), 
to  which  they  intended  going  after  supper. 
My  heart  thrilled  with  pride  as  I  saw  on  the 
boys'  vests  the  familiar  blue  and  gold  fra- 
ternity badge  I  had  worn  so  long.  They  were 
expecting  some  young  friends  to  go  with 
them  they  said. 

"In  the  midst  of  our  laughing  and  chatting, 
the  electric  bell  at  the  front  door  began  ring- 
ing, and  the  boys  and  the  girl  jumped  up  and 
ran  out  to  greet  their  friends.  The  bell  kept 
ringing  and  ringing ;  it  seemed  very  strange, 
and  as  this  thought  seized  my  consciousness, 
my  surroundings  changed  rapidly. 

"Sunlight,  the  cracked  plaster  of  the  walls 
of  a  narrow  room,  a  washstand,  with  the 


216  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

varnish  much  faded  by  spilled  water,  a 
towsled  carpet,  all  these  took  the  place  of  the 
cozy  fireside,  the  spacious  library,  my  lost 
love  and  the  dream  children.  The  bell  I  heard 
ringing  was  in  the  next  room,  trying  to  rouse 
some  sleepy  guest  to  catch  the  7.23  eastbound 
train.  I  was  fully  awake  when,  cursing,  he 
pressed  the  button  as  the  signal  to  the  office 
that  he  was  out  of  bed. 

"I  was  so  intoxicated  with  the  joy  of  my 
vision  that  I  lay  in  bed  until  Elmer,  the  col- 
ored handy  man  whom  I  knew  well,  knocked 
violently  on  the  door  to  remind  me  that  I 
would  miss  my  breakfast  if  I  didn't  get  down 
soon.  I  put  in  the  entire  day  on  the  bench 
by  the  river-bank  overlooking  the  dam,  try- 
ing to  solve  the  problem  of  existence  and  the 
meaning  of  my  dream. 

"By  afternoon  I  resolved  I  would  make  one 
final  effort  to  readjust  my  destiny,  to  put  my 
career  on  an  orbit,  like  other  well  regulated 
lives.  I  went  to  the  railroad  station  to  take 
'Number  Six'  for  McElhattan,  where  I  would 
collect  my  belongings  at  the  camp,  planning 
to  leave  tomcxrrow  morning  for  Tyrone  to 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  217 

make  connections  for  the  town  where  my  lost 
love  lived.  Now  I  will  take  the  'midnight'  for 
Harrisburg  and  change  there  for  the  West. 
I  will  see  if  I  cannot  get  her  to  come  with  me. 
Perhaps,  after  twenty  years,  she  is  widowed, 
divorced  or  unhappily  married.  I  believe 
that  dream  meant  she  would  have  given  <up 
her  other  lover  and  gone  with  me  that  fatal 
May  morning.  I  will  write  you  fully  how 
everything  turns  out,  and  I'll  send  you  the 
address  where  to  ship  my  belongings;  per- 
haps it  will  be  to  a  mansion  on  the  Eastern 
Shore." 

We  parted  at  the  X  roads,  and  we 
watched  the  stalwart  figure  striding  reso- 
lutely along  in  the  direction  of  the  Pennsyl- 
vania station  until  he  disappeared  over  the 
grade  of  the  Beech  Creek  Crossing.  Then 
we  turned  our  horse's  head  out  towards  the 
mountain.  For  many  weeks  and  months  we 
watched  for  the  letter  telling  the  result  of  the 
strange  man's  journey  to  the  home  of  his 
lost  love,  but,  as  it  never  came,  had  to  con- 
clude regretfully  that  he  overlooked  us  in  his 
happiness  or  else  his  high  resolve  came  to 
naught  in  some  sordid  gin  mill  in  Harrisburg. 


XV. 
THE  CALL  OF  THE  TRACK 


OME  one  told  Davie  Lem- 
mons  that  there  were  three 
running  horses  at  Shock's 
livery  stable,  and  he  saunt- 
ered up  the  alley  to  take  a 
look  at  them.  It  had  been 
ten  years  since  he  had 
worked  among  the  runners, 
but  he  felt  the  same  old  en- 
thusiam  returning  as  he  neared  the  stables. 
It  was  a  bright  Sunday  morning,  in  the  early 
part  of  March,  and  although  patches  of  badly 
discolored  snow  still  lingered  along  the  back- 
yard fences,  there  was  an  unmistakable 
aroma  of  springtime  in  the  air. 

Davie  was  a  fashionable  negro  boy,  and  had 
dressed  for  the  occasion;  no  churchman  at- 
tiring himself  for  a  special  service  could  have 
taken  more  care.  He  wore  a  green  suit,  a 
red  tie,  a  black  derby  hat  with  three  white 
buttons  on  either  side,  and  black  patent 

218 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  219 

leather  shoes  with  yellow  buttons.  Three 
brindle  bull-terriers  of  his  own  breeding  pre- 
ceded him  up  the  alley. 

There  was  a  crowd  already  around  the 
stable  door,  but  he  soon  singled  out  Nevin 
Shook,  the  proprietor's  son,  and  tipped  his 
hat  to  him  respectfully.  He  had  begun  to 
tell  him  "how  he  used  to  be  a  jockey,"  when 
a  tall  lean  man  with  a  heavy  mustache  in- 
terrupted, to  ask  if  he  understood  exercising. 
This  was  rather  a  slam  at  his  boasted  prow- 
ess as  a  "pigskin  artist,"  but  it  was  an  open- 
ing wedge,  and,  answering  in  the  affirmative, 
he  followed  Shook,  and  the  tall  man  to  the 
rear  of  the  stable. 

The  man  explained  that  his  exercise  boy 
had  disappeared  while  the  freight  car  lay  on 
a  siding,  and  he  needed  someone  right  away 
to  help  him  out  to  the  fair  grounds  with  his 
string.  Of  the  three  animals,  two  were  small 
bay  fillies,  three  years  old,  called  Elsie  W., 
and  Belle  of  the  Pier,  of  no  particular  class, 
while  the  third  was  an  aged  entire  horse 
standing  about  sixteen  hands,  also  a  bay 
with  a  white  face  and  named  Calvados. 


220  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

Loudly  expressed  admiration,  even  from 
the  colored  boy,  evidently  pleased  the  tall 
man,  for  he  opened  the  door  of  the  box  stall, 
and  seizing  the  big  horse  by  the  halter  led 
him  out  on  the  stable  floor.  He  was  such  a 
beautifully  turned  horse,  with  such  a  blood- 
like  head,  and  flashing  eye,  and  so  gentle 
despite  his  abundant  spirits,  that  Davie  re- 
marked he  looked  different  from  any  race 
horse  he  had  ever  seen.  "I  thought  old  Beli- 
sarius  a  good  looker,  and  Grand  Prix,  and  In- 
ferno, and  old  Fernwood,  and  Gonzales,  but, 
gee,  this  is  a  picture  horse." 

The  tall  man  smiled  and  said  "There's  no 
horse  ever  raced  in  this  country  that  has  his 
looks  or  manners,  except  perhaps  it  was  Go- 
Between,  the  great  suburban  winner.  This 
horse  looks  different  because  he  is  a  French 
horse;  over  there  they  demand  good  looks 
and  manners,  as  well  as  speed."  Then  he  let 
go  the  halter,  and  told  the  horse  to  go  back 
to  his  box,  which  he  did  obediently. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  221 

"I  picked  him  up  last  fall  at  a  farmer's  ven- 
due.  It  is  a  funny  story.  When  the  track  down 
at  Bennings  was  in  the  height  of  its  glory, 
they  used  to  have  races  ridden  by  army  offi- 
cers, which  made  a  big  hit.  It  was  suggested 
that  some  time  they  have  a  private  sweep- 
stakes for  horses  owned  and  ridden  by  mem- 
bers of  the  diplomatic  corps. 

"There  was  a  young  chap  in  the  French 
Embassy  who  had  an  older  brother,  Count  de 
Caen,  visiting  him,  when  the  subject  was  dis- 
cussed. The  Count  became  enthusiastic  and 
declared  he  owned  a  horse  which  could  win 
the  race  if  he  walked  the  entire  distance. 
But  that  is  my  language,  not  his.  He  left 
for  the  old  country  soon  afterwards,  and 
promised  to  send  the  animal  to  his  brother 
in  the  Embassy.  Before  he  had  landed  on 
French  soil  Congress  abolished  racing  in  the 
District  of  Columbia,  and  the  race  was  for- 
gotten. 

"The  young  diplomat  also  forgot  to  cable 
his  brother  not  to  ship  the  horse,  so  it  was 
started,  according  to  the  agreement.  One 
morning  the  young  fellow  received  a  wire 


222  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

from  the  French  Consul  General  in  New 
York  that  a  thoroughbred  horse,  consigned 
to  him,  had  just  been  landed. 

"There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  reply  say- 
ing to  ship  the  animal  to  Washington.  It 
might  do  as  a  saddle  horse,  he  figured.  The 
animal  had  barely  reached  the  Capital  City 
when  the  diplomatist  got  word  of  his  trans- 
fer to  St.  Petersburg,  and  that  dampened  his 
ardor  for  everything,  including  horse-back 
riding,  for  he  had  not  as  yet  affixed  his 
American  heiress. 

"An  obliging  friend  took  the  horse  to  his 
estate  near  Chevy  Chase,  until  the  French- 
man's plans  were  settled.  He  sailed  unex- 
pectedly, and  henceforth  paid  no  attention 
to  his  friend's  letters  as  to  the  future  of  the 
horse.  Disgusted,  the  party  instructed  his 
coachman  to  sell  the  'stud,'  and  a  neighbor- 
ing farmer  became  the  purchaser. 

"I  saw  the  animal  pulling  a  cultivator; 
that  was  too  much  for  me ;  I  inquired  his  his- 
tory, and  a  few  months  later  added  him  to 
my  string  at  practically  my  own  price." 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  223 

"And,"  he  added,  "I'm  going  to  clean  up 
everything  on  the  Fair  Circuit  with  him  this 
summer."  He  reached  into  his  coat  pocket 
and  fished  out  some  soiled  and  crumpled  pa- 
pers. "Here's  his  breeding,  his  certificate 
from  the  French  government,  and  the  record 
of  the  races  he  ran  in  France.  Young  Shook 
and  Davie  looked  at  the  documents  curi- 
ously, but  they  were  in  a  language  that  was 
foreign  to  them.  The  tall  man  began  to  read 
aloud  "  'Calvados,  cheval  baie,'  that  means 
bay  horse,  'six  ans,'  that  is,  six  years  old, 
by  Alhambra  III,  out  of  Hereuse,"  this 
last  word  he  pronounced  as  if  it  was 
"her  aus."  Then  he  paused,  he  had  forgotten 
the  translation  of  what  followed. 

A  number  of  strangers  had  crowded  about 
the  boxes,  so  the  trio  moved  out  to  the  office, 
where  they  continued  their  conversation 
around  the  white-washed  stove.  As  the  tall 
man  seemed  to  take  kindly  to  the  colored  boyr 
the  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  Davie  agreed 
to  give  up  his  position  as  night  timekeeper 
in  the  iron  works,  and  become  exercise  boy, 


224  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

and  possibly  jockey  with  this  string  of  three 
horses. 

When  he  reached  his  modest  home  he 
proudly  told  his  wife  of  his  new  occupation, 
but  she,  with  a  woman's  insight,  begged  him 
to  leave  the  horses  alone.  "You  know  what 
you  were  when  I  married  you,"  she  said, 
"and  how  ten  years  away  from  the  track  has 
made  you  sober  and  industrious.  Besides 
we  have  five  little  children,  and  they  need  a 
father  who  has  a  steady  income.'' 

But  the  colored  boy  was  too  elated  to  be 
affected  by  his  wife's  reasoning,  and  that 
night  handed  in  his  resignation  at  the  iron 
works.  He  helped  move  the  horses  and  out- 
fit to  the  Fair  Grounds,  and  began  his 
duties  with  a  light  heart.  It  was  mostly 
stable  work,  as  the  tracks  and  the  adjacent 
roads  were  deep  with  the  spring  mud. 

The  two  fillies  seemed  an  indifferent  lot, 
which  made  the  tall  man  and  Davie  devote 
their  best  efforts  to  the  more  receptive  Cal- 
vados. In  due  course  of  time  the  half  mile 
track  dried  off  nicely,  and  exercising  began. 
There  were  a  dozen  small  boys  hanging 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  225 

around  the  sheds  all  day  long,  bidding  for  the 
chance  to  ride.  The  tall  man  finally  selected 
two  white  boys,  Adam  Wittgenstein,  son  of  a 
neighboring  farmer,  and  Leo  Quailey,  who 
had  dropped  off  a  freight  car  from  some- 
where. There  wasn't  any  promise  given  of 
pay,  but  the  boys  were  allowed  to  sleep  in 
an  empty  box  and  ate  their  meals,  which 
were  cooked  by  Davie,  with  the  tall  man. 

Adam  Wittgenstein  could  have  gone  home 
to  sleep  and  eat,  his  home  was  so  near,  but  he 
didn't  want  to.  He  had  a  pretty  sister, 
Eleanor,  who  came  to  the  stables  to  urge  him 
visit  the  folks  occasionally.  She  took  a  lik- 
ing to  the  surroundings,  and  her  visits  in- 
creased so  much  that  "the  folks"  began  to 
have  trouble  in  keeping  her  away.  She  was 
a  slim,  dark  girl  with  prominent  brownish 
eyes,  and  straight  nose,  and  full  lips.  When 
she  wore  her  big  hat  and  tight-fitting  black 
skirt  on  Sundays  she  attracted  more  atten- 
tion around  the  stables  than  the  horses. 

On  Memorial  Day  there  was  a  day  of  rac- 
ing at  the  Fair  Grounds,  but  the  tall  man 
decided  not  to  start  any  of  his  string.  He 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


would  keep  them  dark,  and  wait  for  the 
Fourth  of  July.  Davie  had  become  some- 
what impatient  at  the  long  delay  before  the 
first  start;  his  wife  had  been  nagging  him 
for  money,  consequently  he  was  elated  when 
the  door  of  the  box-car  closed  on  the  horses 
and  himself  on  the  evening  of  July  first.  The 
two  white  boys  had  been  left  behind,  it  was 
too  expensive  to  carry  them.  They  were 
bound  for  Huntersburg,  a  Pennsylvania 
mountain  town,  to  take  part  in  the  races  at 
the  "Midsummer  Fair." 

The  weather  was  grand,  and  the  sun  shone 
as  it  only  can  in  July.  The  horses  had  ar- 
rived in  prime  condition,  but  Davie  did  his 
exercising  before  daybreak,  and  few  were 
aware  of  their  abilities.  The  first  running 
race  was  scheduled  for  July  third,  and  was 
a  sort  of  preliminary,  or  try-out  for  the  "big 
race"  to  be  held  on  the  "Fourth."  It  was  to 
be  a  half-mile  affair,  best  two  in  three. 

The  entries  were  not  printed  in  the  local 
papers,  and  until  the  programs  were  placed 
on  sale  just  before  the  races  began,  it  was 
hard  to  guess  the  numbers  or  class  of  the 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  227 

contestants.  Just  an  hour  before  the  first 
heat,  Davie  was  strolling  along  the  line  of 
padlocked  boxes,  tearing  to  bits  as  he  walked 
a  letter  from  his  wife  asking  him  to  send  her 
money.  His  ears  were  primed  and  eyes 
alert  for  information  when  he  heard  voices 
back  of  the  sheds.  He  turned  through  a  nar- 
row alley,  and  saw  a  group  of  young  men 
looking  over  a  high  inclosure  of  whitewashed 
boards,  built  out  from  a  shed.  He  edged  up 
to  the  crowd  and  peered  over. 

Standing  in  this  yard  was  a  stockily  built 
horse,  with  a  cobby  head,  roached  mane, 
and  banged  tail,  in  appearance  more  like 
a  broncho  than  a  thoroughbred.  He  was 
an  entire  animal,  dark  brown  in  color,  and 
stood  a  scant  fifteen  hands.  "What  horse  is 
that?"  inquired  Davie  in  the  most  nonchalant 
manner  he  could  assume;  the  query  was  ad- 
dressed to  the  group  of  young  men  in  gen- 
eral, but  none  answered. 

He  was  about  to  move  away,  when  one 
more  kindly  faced  than  the  rest  stepped  over 
to  him  and  said:  "That's  the  horse  which 
wins  the  race  today ;  that  is  Little  Christmas, 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


by  Marty  B.,  dam  Little  Ida,  by  Tom  Bowl- 
ing, Jr.  He  won  all  his  six  starts  on  the  Fair 
Circuit  last  fall,  and  he'll  do  better  this  year 
because  he's  now  a  five-year-old."  Davie 
thanked  the  kindly  youth,  and  slipped  away 
as  quickly  as  he  could.  When  saddling  time 
came,  Calvados,  or  the  "French  horse"  as 
every  one  called  him,  was  like  a  wild  horse. 
It  was  all  the  tall  man  and  Davie  could  do  to 
buckle  the  saddle  girth.  He  champed  his  bit, 
reared  and  kicked,  and  thrashed  about  with 
his  magnificent  tail,  until  a  crowd  collected, 
mistaking  his  good  spirits  for  viciousness. 

While  all  conceded  that  the  "French  horse" 
would  take  a  lot  to  beat  him,  the  natives 
shook  their  heads,  and  said  the  race  was  a 
"pipe"  for  Little  Christmas;  which  turned 
out  to  be  a  local  horse.  His  owner,  Simon 
Hemmig,  kept  a  feed  store  on  River  street, 
and  he  was  to  be  ridden  by  Sammy  Ziegford, 
son  of  the  foreman  in  the  town's  leading  liv- 
ery stable. 

During  the  saddling  of  Calvados,  Sammy 
appeared,  followed  by  a  dozen  admirers.  He 
was  rigged  out  in  full  jockey  regalia,  with  a 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  229 

red  and  blue  shirt,  but  several  sizes  too  large 
of  which  he  seemed  inordinately  proud.  He 
carried  a  whip,  and  kept  striking  at  the 
wooden  uprights  of  the  saddling  shed.  He 
was  an  ill-favored  little  fellow,  his  frame  was 
too  heavy  to  ever  make  a  good  rider,  and  his 
blonde  hair  sorely  needed  a  trimming.  As  he 
moved  away  in  the  direction  of  the  "private 
paddock"  occupied  by  Little  Christmas,  he 
remarked  loudly,  "That  old  horse  will  be  get- 
ting started  about  the  time  I'm  dismount- 
ing." 

The  colored  boy  looked  very  angry,  but  as 
the  crowd  was  "with"  the  local  rider  he 
wisely  held  his  tongue.  Davie  on  the  "French 
horse"  was  the  first  out  on  the  track.  The 
big  thoroughbred  made  an  impressive  ap- 
pearance as  he  paraded  past  the  thronged 
grandstand.  There  was  an  "ah"  from  all 
sides;  they  had  never  seen  a  racer  of  his 
calibre  before.  He  won  even  the  most  rabid 
partisans  by  his  beauty,  and  they  consoled 
themselves  by  saying :  "What  a  pity  to  have  a 
'bogie'  riding  him." 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


The  other  horses  came  out  presently.  They 
were  wretched  looking  animals,  known  as 
Bake  House  and  Laura  M.,  and  were  ridden 
by  large-sized  white  boys.  Little  Christmas 
did  not  appear  at  the  starting  post  for  over 
half  an  hour  after  the  bell  rang,  but  nothing 
was  said  as  he  was  the  local  entry,  and 
starter  and  jockey  were  close  friends.  When 
he  finally  swept  up  the  track,  Sammy  riding 
on  his  neck  in  imitation  of  the  fashionable 
jockey  seat,  with  his  baggy  colors  flapping 
in  the  breeze,  the  outfit  looked  like  a  ship  in 
full  sail.  There  was  tumultuous  cheering  in 
the  grandstand.  Evidently  it  was  all  settled 
that  the  local  horse  should  win,  so  thought 
the  tall  man  who  owned  the  "French  horse" 
as  he  leaned  on  the  rail.  There  was  a  delay 
of  three-quarters  of  an  hour  getting  them 
"off,"  as  the  starter  was  determined  to  give 
the  local  horse  the  best  of  it.  But  Little 
Christmas  was  a  slow  beginner  and  would 
not  break  in  front.  Finally  a  spectator  was 
called  on  to  hold  the  "French  horse's"  head, 
which  was  evidently  a  ruse,  while  the  local 
horse  was  gotten  into  position.  When  the 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  231 

man  had  the  bridle  tightly  gripped  the 
starter  dropped  his  flag,  and  the  field  was  in 
motion,  with  an  open  gap  between  Little 
Christmas  and  his  nearest  competitor. 

Davie  struck  the  officious  party  with  his 
whip,  he  speedily  let  go,  and  the  "French 
horse"  bounding  like  a  jack  rabbit  was  in 
pursuit.  In  front  of  the  stand  he  was  run- 
ning neck  and  neck  with  Little  Christmas; 
Davie  was  sitting  still,  but  the  local  jockey 
was  plying  his  whip.  There  was  a  dead  sil- 
ence in  the  crowd,  for  reasons  mainly  specu- 
lative, but  partly  sentimental.  Rounding  the 
turn  the  "French  horse"  took  the  lead,  and 
there  was  a  constantly  widening  space  of  day- 
light between  him  and  the  local  horse  as  they 
swept  along  the  back  stretch.  The  silence  on 
the  stand  became  oppressive.  It  was  as  if  a 
funeral  oration  was  about  to  be  delivered. 

Coming  around  the  last  turn  Davie  eased 
up  the  "Frenchman"  and  allowed  Little 
Christmas  to  make  up  a  little  ground.  When 
they  were  opposite  the  far  end  of  the  stand, 
he  whispered  something  to  his  mount,  and 
the  big  bay  leaped  forward  with  redoubled 


232  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

speed  and  crossed  the  finish  thirty  lengths  in 
front  of  the  local  entry.  Bake  House  and 
Laura  M.,  struggling  gamely,  brought  up  the 
rear.  Lots  of  the  country  people  were  so 
disgusted  at  the  defeat  of  their  favorite  that 
they  immediately  left  the  stand  noisily  de- 
claring that  "running  races  were  no  good 
anyhow,"  and  "it  was  an  outrage  to  let  a 
damned  darky  ride  a  race." 

On  the  course  there  was  a  trail  of  pro- 
fanity all  the  way  from  the  judges'  stand  to 
the  stables,  indulged  in  by  everyone  from  the 
officials  down  to  the  "swipes."  The  race  had 
not  turned  out  as  arranged.  The  second  heat 
was  scheduled  to  take  place  after  the  final 
heat  in  the  harness  races,  and  the  lateness 
of  the  hour  combined  with  the  unpopular 
victory  of  the  French  horse,  left  few  per- 
sons in  the  stand  when  the  four  horses  cant- 
ered to  the  post. 

At  the  stables  still  lingered  a  large  crowd, 
especially  around  Little  Christmas'  box. 
Sammy  was  kept  busy  receiving  condolences 
coupled  with  assurances  that  he'd  surely  win 
the  next  heat.  One  old  fellow,  a  stockholder 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


in  the  Fair  Association,  with  a  yellow  beard 
that  reached  to  below  his  waist  line,  declared 
he  would  compel  the  board  of  directors  to 
make  a  rule  forbidding  colored  riders  on  the 
track  next  year.  When  the  bell  rang  all  four 
horses  filed  through  the  gate  in  good  season. 
Once  on  the  track,  however,  Sammy  galloped 
his  mount  beside  the  "French  horse"  and, 
leaning  over  towards  Davie,  poured  out  at 
him  the  tirade  that  a  certain  type  of  white 
men  often  apply  to  negroes. 

The  colored  boy  only  smiled;  he  was  more 
anxious  to  win  the  race  than  to  enter  into  a 
fight  with  his  fair  skinned  rival.  The  tall 
man  was  at  the  post  to  see  the  unfair  tactics 
used  at  the  start  of  the  first  heat  were  not 
duplicated.  He  kept  his  keen  Southern  eyes 
on  the  little  pudgy  starter,  and  shouted  to  him 
several  times  when  that  individual  was  obvi- 
ously trying  to  give  the  advantage  to  Little 
Christmas.  After  fifteen  minutes  he  saw 
it  was  best  to  let  them  go,  so  he  sent  them  off 
to  an  even  break.  It  seemed  practically  the 
first  heat  all  over  again. 


234  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

The  French  horse  soon  had  an  immense 
lead,  and  they  galloped  on  like  a  procession 
past  the  stand,  around  the  turn,  and  up  the 
back  stretch.  Turning  into  the  home  stretch 
David  laid  back  in  the  saddle,  pulled  Calva- 
dos down  to  a  common  canter,  and  with  head 
swinging  the  big  French  racer  loped  along 
towards  the  finish.  Back  of  him  Sammy 
Ziegford  was  plying  the  whip  on  Little 
Christmas  like  a  flail.  Davie,  who  was  all 
smiles,  evidently  failed  to  notice  the  stocky 
form  of  his  rival  creep  to  his  horse's  flanks. 
He  heard  something  panting  like  an  en- 
gine, and  looking  around  saw  Little  Christ- 
mas tiring  badly,  but  sticking  to  it  bravely. 

In  a  twinkling  Sammy  drove  his  mount 
with  full  force  into  the  French  horse,  forced 
him  out  of  his  stride,  hit  Davie  over  the  face 
with  his  whip,  and  compelled  him  to  pull 
down  to  a  walk  to  avoid  falling.  Then  he 
plied  the  whip  on  Little  Christmas  and  went 
on  and  won  by  five  lengths.  There  was  a 
vociferous  cheer  from  the  handful  of  rustics 
on  the  stand,  who  evidently  imagined  such  a 
palpable  foul  would  be  allowed  to  go,  because 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  235 

it  was  in  favor  of  the  local  horse.  Not  a  word 
was  said  by  the  officials  and  the  jockeys  had 
begun  dismounting,  as  the  tall  man,  white 
with  anger  climbed  up  the  winding  stair  into 
the  judges'  box. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  convince  the  brown 
overcoated  would-be  sportsmen  that  they 
were  dealing  with  a  real  man,  and  they  in- 
structed the  announcer  to  tell  the  spectators 
that  a  foul  had  been  committed,  and  the  heat 
and  race  had  been  given  to  the  French  horse, 
Calvados.  It  took  a  dozen  to  keep  Sammy 
Ziegford  from  attacking  the  judges  as  they 
descended  from  their  stand,  and  he  was  fin- 
ally led  away  vowing  vengeance  on  every- 
body and  everything. 

Davie  was  hooted  as  he  led  the  winning 
horse  back  to  the  stables,  and  small  boys 
called  'bogie'  while  he  was  cooling  him  off. 
After  the  work  was  done  he  locked  the  stall, 
and  as  an  extra  precaution  left  it  in  charge 
of  a  friendly  Dutchman.  He  walked  down  to 
the  railroad  station  and  sent  a  telegram  to 
his  wife.  It  read,  "Won  fine  race  today,  am 
sending  money  order  tomorrow." 


236  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

He  returned  to  the  stables,  and  after  sup- 
per, retired  for  the  night  in  a  stall  adjoin- 
ing the  box  occupied  by  Calvados.  He  was 
feeling  happy,  for,  apart  from  his  victory,  he 
looked  forward  to  the  next  day,  July  Fourth, 
when  the  big  crowds  would  be  present,  to 
repeat  the  performance.  Then,  he  thought, 
he  would  not  ease  down  his  mount  at  the 
homestretch,  but  would  let  him  win  by  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  if  necessary.  He  was  not 
a  heavy  sleeper,  so  he  easily  awakened  by 
hearing  someone  fumbling  with  the  padlock 
on  Calvados'  box.  He  was  up  and  out  in  the 
alley  in  half  a  minute. 

It  was  a  dark  night,  but  he  could  make  out 
a  human  form,  a  short,  gorilla  like  figure 
running  in  the  direction  of  the  cow-barns. 
The  colored  boy  took  a  chance  and  made  after 
him,  soon  overtaking  him  and  grabbing  him 
by  the  shirt  collar.  The  prowler  looked  about, 
and  Davie  could  see  he  was  none  other  than 
Sammy  Ziegford,  erstwhile  rider  of  Little 
Christmas.  "What  were  you  doing  around 
my  stables?"  demanded  the  negro.  Sammy 
answered  by  a  torrent  of  oaths  and  a  vicious 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  237 

blow,  which  shook  him  loose  from  his  dusky 
captor.  He  turned  and  ran  towards  the 
stables,  but  Davie  cornered  him  in  an  angle 
of  the  alley,  before  he  had  gone  a  hundred 
yards. 

Taking  a  stout  grip  on  the  lad  he  led  him 
to  his  recently  vacated  sleeping  quarters, 
determined  to  lock  him  in  there  until  morn- 
ing. As  he  was  shoving  him  through  the 
door  the  infuriated  white  boy  spied  a  pitch- 
fork standing  in  the  corner.  Grabbing  with 
the  quickness  of  demoniac  fury  he  drove  it 
through  his  captor's  breast,  puncturing  his 
heart  and  lungs.  With  a  guttural  sigh,  the 
colored  boy  sank  down  in  a  heap  and  was 
soon  dead. 

Sammy  took  some  straw,  wiped  the  blood 
off  the  prongs  of  the  fork,  and  stood  it  back 
in  its  accustomed  place.  He  was  trembling 
like  a  leaf  with  the  reaction  from  his  fit  of 
passion  as  he  closed  and  bolted  the  door  of 
the  box  stall,  leaving  his  victim  open-mouthed 
and  hideous,  half  buried  in  the  straw.  Early 
the  next  morning,  when  the  tall  man  came  to 


238  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

the  fair  grounds,  he  was  surprised  to  find  no 
signs  of  life  around  his  stables. 

"That  'smoke's'  been  on  a  bender  last 
night,"  he  muttered,  as  he  opened  the  box 
which  he  occupied.  There  lay  the  colored 
boy,  almost  hidden  from  view  in  the  straw. 
The  tall  man  bent  over  him  and  found  he  was 
not  breathing.  On  the  front  of  his  white 
muslin  shirt  were  three  spots  of  dried  blood. 
That  told  the  story,  and  the  tall  man,  grim 
and  silent,  took  a  lock  from  off  the  wall  and 
securely  shut  the  box. 

It  was  hard  to  interest  the  local  authori- 
ties. "A  negro  found  dead  in  a  box  stall," 
was  hardly  worth  noticing  by  the  local 
papers,  especially  when  the  Grand  Mid-sum- 
mer Fair  was  in  progress.  The  colored  boy 
was  avenged  in  different  fashion  that  after- 
noon. In  the  presence  of  the  biggest  crowd 
that  had  ever  assembled  there,  the  French 
horse,  Calvados,  ridden  this  time  by  a  white 
boy,  took  the  "Fourth  of  July  Running  Race," 
in  straight  heats  from  the  local  horse,  Little 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


Christmas,     ridden     by     Sammy    Ziegford, 
breaking  the  track  record  by  five  seconds. 

But  poor  Davie  Lemmons  had  given  up  his 
life  in  answer  to  the  "Call  of  the  Track." 


XVI. 
THE  GHOST  OF  THE  PINE 


LD  Hezekiah  Gerhard's  home 
was  the  most  conspicuous 
along  the  state  road.  Yet 
the  little  square  frame 
house  was  sadly  in  need  of 
painting,  the  outbuildings 
were  dilapidated,  and  a 
score  of  palings  were 
broken  or  missing  from  the 
yard  fence.  For  six  months  the  lower  hinge 
was  missing  from  the  front  gate.  But  in  the 
yard  grew  a  tree  of  unusual  size  and  appear- 
ance, which  attracted  attention  for  a  mile  in 
either  direction,  as  the  homestead  was  situ- 
ated on  a  slight  rise. 

The  tree  was  an  old-fashioned  yellow  pine. 
We  say  "old  fashioned,"  for  Pennsylvania 
mountaineers  maintain  that  the  true  species 
of  yellow  pine  disappeared  about  thirty  years 
ago.  They  were  never  over  plentiful,  and 
were  soon  wiped  out  by  the  lumbermen,  for- 

240 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  241 

est  fires,  and  a  small  green  beetle  which  made 
a  specialty  of  boring  their  bark.  None  grew 
in  their  places,  and  apart  from  a  few  pre- 
served as  ornaments  in  front  yards,  they  may 
be  regarded  as  extinct,  at  least  so  say  the 
backwoods  wiseacres. 

When  old-timers  driving  along  the  state 
road  came  in  sight  of  Hezekiah  Gerhard's 
home,  they  invariably  called  out  in  surprised 
tones,  "there's  a  genuine  old  fashioned  yellow 
pine!"  Many  stopped  to  notice  and  admire 
the  tree,  and  even  forestry  officials  who  would 
not  admit  that  it  belonged  to  a  distinct 
species,  referred  to  it  as  "a  magnificent  speci- 
men of  a  mature  yellow  pine." 

If  you  looked  it  over  carefully,  its  differ- 
ence from  the  commonly  met  with  yellow 
pines  seemed  apparent.  The  bark  was  soft 
and  smooth,  and  of  a  bright  yellow  color, 
and  the  needles  were  almost  as  long  as  those 
of  the  Southern  long-leafed  pine,  but  much 
darker.  The  odor  from  them  was  very  pun- 
gent, and  could  be  inhaled  at  a  great  dis- 
tance. This  particular  tree  was  devoid  of 
branches  for  sixty  feet,  but  at  that  height 


242  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

sent  out  several  rounds  of  graceful,  upturned 
boughs,  which  terminated  in  the  shaggy  and 
glossy  umbrella-like  top. 

How  it  had  been  allowed  to  stand  when  all 
its  fellows  had  been  demolished  half  a  cen- 
tury before  was  a  mystery.  It  was  even  to  old 
Gerhard  himself,  and  he  often  said  he  re- 
gretted not  having  asked  the  reason  from  the 
parties  of  whom  he  had  bought  the  place 
in  1865,  when  he  settled  there,  after  four 
years  in  the  Northern  army. 

As  years  went  by  and  so  many  venerable 
strangers  and  young  foresters  admired  the 
tree,  the  old  man  became  considerably  elated 
at  the  possession  of  this  arboreal  giant.  Be- 
fore he  went  to  the  war  he  had  been  a  rafts- 
man and  his  only  interest  in  trees  was  in 
their  value  as  marketable  lumber.  Often  as 
he  sat  in  his  rocking  chair,  under  the  big 
tree,  on  summer  twilights,  he  would  estimate 
the  amount  of  feet  of  board  measure  it  con- 
tained. The  figures,  which  always  totalled 
"seven  thousand  feet,"  were  probably  not  a 
hundred  feet  out  of  the  way.  That  gave  an 
idea  of  the  immensity  of  the  tree,  especially 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  243 

in  these  degenerate  days  when  a  portable  mill 
considers  it  "good  sawing"  to  get  even  seven 
thousand  feet  from  an  acre  of  woodland. 

He  was  fond  of  telling  about  a  German 
travelling  through  the  country,  buying  wal- 
nut trees,  who  had  offered  him  "one  hundred 
dollars  spot  cash"  for  the  giant  tree.  Some- 
times when  his  wife  had  spent  all  his  pension 
money  on  his  daughters  and  their  children, 
he  wished  for  the  return  of  the  liberal  Ger- 
man. But  generally  he  would  say  he  wouldn't 
part  with  it,  "whoever  buys  the  tree  must 
take  the  house  with  it."  Like  most  human 
beings  the  tree  had  an  enemy.  He  was  Oren 
Hincks,  Gerhard's  son-in-law. 

Hincks  was  a  loud-voiced,  self-important 
individual,  and  followed  the  trade  of  house- 
painting  in  Youngmanstown.  Tall  and  spare, 
he  had  chronic  indigestion,  which  caused  him 
to  make  frequent  trips  to  his  father-in-law's 
country  home  to  brace  up  his  unsteady  con- 
stitution. He  was  an  habitual  complainer, 
and  for  a  while,  despite  the  frequency  of  his 
visits,  found  fault  with  everything. 


244  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

As  time  went  on  he  centered  his  spiteful- 
ness  on  the  giant  pine.  "What  good  is  that 
damn  yaller  pine,  anyway,  shadin'  the  yard, 
and  droppin'  needles  on  the  roof."  He  was  al- 
ways cutting  at  the  bark  with  his  huge  case- 
knife,  and  when  there  were  leaves  to  be 
burnt,  he  piled  them  around  the  base  of  the 
tree,  badly  scorching  the  roots.  He  com- 
plained that  the  dampness  from  its  foliage 
caused  the  mildewed  appearance  of  the  house, 
whereas  the  real  reason  was  it  had  not  been 
painted  since  1885. 

Old  Gerhard  hated  to  spend  the  money  to 
have  the  house  repainted,  though  his  son-in- 
law  told  his  wife  that  it  was  the  old  veteran's 
duty  to  give  him  a  chance  to  earn  some 
money.  He  would  often  remark  at  the  din- 
ner table,  "if  you'd  cut  down  that  fool  tree, 
I'd  paint  your  house  for  you.  But  what's  the 
good  doing  it  now,  when  all  that  shade  is  rot- 
ting it  to  its  foundations?"  This  seemed  a 
convincing  argument,  especially  when  so 
often  repeated. 

Then,  too,  when  the  winds  blew  at  night 
the  topmost  boughs  had  a  habit  of  rendering 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  245 

a  weird  cantata  of  their  own.  Old  Mrs.  Ger- 
hard said,  it  kept  her  awake,  and  would  join 
in  against  the  tree  with  her  iconoclastic  son- 
in-law.  All  these  things  made  their  impres- 
sion on  the  old  man.  At  first  he  had  valued 
the  tree  because  strangers  fancied  it  and  a 
German  had  once  offered  to  buy  it  for  one 
hundred  dollars,  spot  cash.  Now  as  every- 
one in  his  family  looked  upon  it  as  a  nuis- 
ance, it  had  better  be  removed.  But  he  hesi- 
tated, and  waited,  maybe  that  German  would 
return,  then  he  would  have  it  cut. 

The  cantankerous  son-in-law  when  he 
learned  the  old  man's  weakness  suggested 
that  the  tree  be  sawed  down  at  once,  and  the 
logs  peeled  and  put  away  in  the  barn  to  be 
seasoned.  "By  the  time  that  German  gentle- 
man returns  the  logs  will  be  in  prime  condi- 
tion; I  wouldn't  wonder  if  he'd  give  you  a 
hundred  and  fifty."  This  sounded  like  logic, 
and  one  day  the  painter  entered  into  a  deal 
with  the  old  man  which  sealed  the  fate  of  the 
mammoth  pine.  He  would  paint  the  house 
as  soon  as  work  grew  slack,  for  seventy-five 
dollars,  and  would  wait  for  his  pay  until  his 


246  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

father-in-law  sold  the  logs,  provided  the  tree 
was  cut  immediately.  He  never  calculated 
that  the  logs  would  be  sold,  but  if  the  house 
was  painted,  and  the  tree  down,  somehow  or 
other  the  old  man  would  be  forced  to  pay  him. 

The  very  next  morning  was  set  for  the  exe- 
cution. A  mile  further  up  the  road,  near 
where  the  creek  crossed  under  the  new  con- 
crete bridge,  lived  two  old  woodsmen,  brothers 
named  Tom  and  Ed  Jameson.  After  fifty 
years  of  strenuous  labor  they  had  retired  like 
ancient  mariners  to  spend  the  remainder  of 
their  days  in  their  snug  cottage.  Hincks, 
the  painter,  induced  them  to  join  in  the  tree 
felling  bee  as  well  as  several  other  younger 
men  who  had  had  more  or  less  experience  in 
the  woods. 

The  fatal  day  dawned  crisp  and  bright; 
it  was  typical  of  the  month  of  September.  A 
gentle  breeze  was  stirring  the  long  needles 
in  the  umbrella-like  dome  of  the  doomed  pine. 
Never,  it  seemed,  had  the  ozone  from  that 
lofty  canopy  been  more  fragrant  or  invigor- 
ating. As  the  breeze  persisted,  the  weird 
cantata,  which  it  so  often  sang  at  night,  be- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  247 

gan ;  it  was  as  if  the  tree  understood  its  fate 
and  was  chanting  its  requiem. 

First  of  all  the  Jameson  "boys"  as  they 
were  called,  even  though  they  were  both  well 
over  seventy,  removed  the  panels  of  the 
front  yard  fence,  so  as  to  allow  plenty  of 
leeway  to  the  cross-cut  saws,  and  to  prevent 
it  being  smashed  by  the  limbs  of  the  falling 
tree.  Hincks  had  the  satisfaction  of  notch- 
ing it  with  a  brand-new  double  bitted  axe, 
while  the  two  Jamesons  handled  the  cross- 
cut. All  the  neighbors,  old  and  young,  were 
attracted  by  the  excitement,  but  there  were 
no  regrets  expressed,  as  the  aesthetic  value 
of  trees  had  never  been  felt  in  the  com- 
munity. 

It  took  quite  a  time  to  fell  the  giant,  and 
as  the  saw  grew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
notch,  the  canopy-like  top  was  convulsed  with 
audible  shudders.  At  last  with  a  cry  from 
Hincks,  "Look  out  everybody,"  which  sent 
the  crowd  scampering  in  all  directions,  and 
an  ear-splitting  cracking  of  wood,  the  tree 
dropped  with  a  thud  that  shook  the  earth. 
It  sounded  like  the  report  of  a  sunset  gun 


248  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

at  some  fort.  In  an  instant  children  were 
clambering  over  the  prostrate  trunk. 

The  Jameson  boys  lost  no  time  in  sawing 
the  part  below  the  branches  into  four  sixteen 
foot  logs.  Then,  aided  by  the  younger  men 
they  set  to  work  cutting  the  top  and  limbs 
into  stovewood.  "This  reminds  us,"  called 
out  one  of  them,  "of  1876,  when  we  was 
cuttin'  cordwood  for  the  Pennsy  at  Wilcox  in 
Elk  county.  That's  where  they  have  the  big 
tannery  that  tanned  three  million  buffalo 
hides." 

After  several  days'  labor  the  job  was  fin- 
ished and  all  the  wood  ranked  for  the  sake 
of  convenience  along  the  back  of  the  house. 
The  logs  were  left  unmoved  and  these,  with 
the  mammoth  stump  and  vast  quantity  of 
glossy  needles  which  fairly  carpeted  the  yard 
were  constant  reminders  of  the  fallen  pine. 
The  fence  was  replaced  by  Hincks,  who  was 
elated  with  his  triumph  over  his  inanimate 
enemy. 

After  the  tree  was  gone,  poor  old  Gerhard 
and  his  wife  began  to  regret  it.  The  after- 
noon sun  was  more  noticeable  than  formerly, 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  249 

they  missed  the  health-giving  aroma  which 
emanated  from  its  dark  green  foliage.  In 
the  evenings  the  old  man  would  sit  on  one  of 
the  logs,  leaning  on  his  staff,  imagining  him- 
self bargaining  with  the  liberal  German  tim- 
ber buyer.  His  wife  said  she  was  always 
dreaming  about  the  tree,  and  the  song  it  used 
to  sing  at  night.  Her  dreams  were  so  vivid 
they  woke  her  up,  but  even  then  her  ears 
rang  with  the  strains  of  the  weird  cantata. 

Shortly  after  the  first  snow  fell,  which  was 
about  Thanksgiving  time,  Hincks,  accom- 
panied by  his  wife  and  children,  came  on  a 
visit  to  the  old  people.  "I've  come  to  pay  you 
a  visit,  and  paint  your  house,"  was  his  in- 
troductory. 

That  evening  he  noticed  old  Gerhard  car- 
rying in  some  oak  wood  from  a  shed. 

"Ain't  you  burnin'  the  wood  from  that 
yaller  pine?"  he  queried  rather  sharply. 
"No,"  answered  the  old  man  timidly,  "we 
tho't  it  wasn't  dried  enough." 

"I'll  show  you  that  it  is,"  rejoined  the 
painter,  and  running  out  brought  back  an 
armful  of  the  resonant  pine. 


250  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

It  looked  dry  enough,  but  when  put  in  the 
stove  gave  out  such  a  sputtering  and  singing 
that  the  old  man,  seated  on  the  woodbox  in 
the  corner  exclaimed  disgustedly  "too  green." 
But  Hincks  insisted,  and  aided  by  kerosene, 
the  supper  was  cooked  with  the  pine  wood. 

During  the  evening  the  wind  started,  and 
there  was  a  moaning  sound  outside  which 
was  strangely  reminiscent  of  the  pine  tree's 
night  song.  Old  Gerhard  and  his  wife  both 
remarked  this,  but  the  son-in-law  laughed 
at  them,  saying  that  it  was  the  telephone 
wires  across  the  road.  Every  few  minutes 
the  old  man  would  become  silent  and  put  his 
hand  to  his  ear,  listen  awhile  attentively  and 
say,  "that  surely  is  the  old  pine  back  again." 

By  10  o'clock  he  could  stand  it  no  longer. 
He  nodded  to  his  wife  and  said  "I'm  going 
out  to  see  where  all  that  moaning  comes 
from ;  it's  no  telephone  wires."  Hincks,  with 
one  of  his  little  girls  on  his  lap,  was  dozing 
in  an  arm  chair  when  his  father-in-law 
started  for  the  door.  He  looked  at  him 
angrily,  and  called  to  him  "what's  the  use 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  251 

fussing  over  telephone  wires,  ain't  you  used 
to  them  by  this  time?" 

But  old  Gerhard  paid  no  heed,  and,  al- 
though he  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves  and  wore 
carpet  slippers,  he  opened  the  door.  As  he 
did  so  a  gust  of  chilly  wind  blew  his  white 
beard  about  his  face.  He  shut  the  door  after 
him  and  moved  slowly  along  the  board-walk. 
The  air  was  cold,  but  never  had  it  been  so 
surcharged  with  the  odor  of  the  pine. 

When  he  turned  the  corner  of  the  house 
he  saw  a  great  murky  vapor  rising  from  the 
giant  pine  stump.  He  looked  at  it  closely, 
it  was  like  a  spiral  column ;  he  followed  it 
with  his  eyes;  it  stretched  upwards  more 
than  sixty  feet  where  it  spread  out  into  a  vast 
filmy  canopy.  From  the  dizzy  heights  came 
melodious  cadences,  similar,  yet  truer  and 
sweeter  than  the  humming  of  the  telephone 
wires  across  the  way.  He  stood  and  listened. 

It  seemed  to  him  like  the  violin  playing  of 
Ole  Bull,  whom  he  had  heard  at  his  ill-fated 
castle  on  Kettle  Creek  away  back  in  the  '50's. 
He  had  been  hunting  elk  at  the  time,  and  sat 
on  a  log  on  the  opposite  mountain  drinking 


252  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

in  the  exquisite  tones  as  they  were  wafted  in- 
distinctly across  the  ravine. 

But  suddenly  the  old  man  heard  an  un- 
earthly noise,  and  felt  a  shock,  as  if  struck 
across  the  face  by  a  blackjack.  As  he  fell, 
he  saw  himself  engulfed  by  the  hazy  vapor 
which  streamed  from  the  stump  of  the  an- 
cient yellow  pine;  it  was  as  if  he  had  been 
struck  down  by  a  spectral  windfall.  He  be- 
came senseless,  and  death  soon  relieved  him. 

Inside  the  house  Hincks  enjoyed  his  nap 
before  he  became  aware  that  old  Gerhard  had 
been  absent  a  long  while.  The  old  wife  had 
felt  apprehensive  ever  since  he  went  out,  but 
feared  to  speak  lest  she  disturb  her  son-in- 
law.  "Where's  Gran'pap?"  said  the  painter, 
suddenly,  as  if  returning  from  some  distant 
land.  When  told  he  had  gone  to  look  into 
the  strange  noises  outside,  he  jumped  up  and 
huried  out,  muttering  "that  old  fool  ought  to 
be  in  bed." 

In  the  front  yard  an  awful  sight  met  his 
gaze ;  there  lay  the  dead  body  of  the  poor  old 
man,  with  his  face  mashed  in  as  if  by  a  black- 
jack. "Murdered  by  tramps/'  was  the  only 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  253 

thought  that  crossed  the  excited  painter's 
mind.  And  that  was  the  verdict,  also,  of  the 
coroner's  jury. 

But  wasn't  it  peculiar  that  after  that  night 
the  strange  melodious  murmurs  were  heard 
no  more  about  the  little  home?  The  telephone 
wires  still  hummed  when  the  winds  were 
high,  but  they  were  so  unmusical  and  com- 
monplace in  comparison.  And  the  pine  wood 
burned  in  the  stove  as  if  it  had  been  sea- 
soned for  years;  it  ceased  its  wingeing  and 
sighing  as  if  retribution  had  satisfied  it. 


XVII. 
A  PENNSYLVANIA  BISON  HUNT 


UFFALOES  were  plentiful 
in  Central  Pennsylvania 
until  the  beginning  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  when 
all,  excepting  a  half  dozen 
stragglers,  were  slaught- 
ered in  a  single  week,  two 
men  being  responsible  for 
the  extermination  of  what 
was  a  distinct  species  of  these  noble  animals. 
The  Pennsylvania  bison  were  more  closely 
allied  to  the  wood  bison  of  Canada  North- 
west, than  to  the  buffaloes  which  once  roamed 
our  western  plains. 

Pennsylvania  bison  grew  to  enormous  size, 
were  darker,  and  their  hair  curlier  and 
crisper  than  the  buffaloes  we  know.  On  ac- 
count of  living  in  a  mountainous  country  they 
did  not  carry  much  superfluous  flesh,  and 
their  long  legs  made  them  agile  runners.  In 
the  summer  time  they  could  be  found  in 

254 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


bands  of  about  a  dozen  individuals  grazing 
on  the  high  plateaux  and  on  mountain  sides 
where  new  grass  had  come  up  after  the  forest 
fires. 

In  winter  they  congregated  into  vast  herds 
and  descended  into  the  protected  valleys 
where  they  dug  out  the  grass  from  under  the 
snow,  and  during  storms  huddled  together 
for  mutual  protection.  They  had  a  habit 
of  following  a  leader,  and  if  this  brute  moved 
in  a  certain  direction  the  rest  followed,  often 
to  the  peril  of  the  entire  herd.  As  the  years 
went  by,  and  the  country  became  more  closely 
settled,  their  range  grew  more  limited  and 
their  numbers  decreased. 

By  1770  no  bison  were  seen  in  the  West 
Branch  Valley,  as  twenty  years  of  relentless 
trapping  had  made  them  too  wily  to  ap- 
proach that  region.  They  still  penetrated  the 
valleys  to  the  south,  however,  but  were  never 
left  unmolested.  When  the  new  century  be- 
gan there  were  bands  aggregating  five  hun- 
dred animals  scattered  over  all  the  highlands 
between  Middle  Creek  and  the  southern  edge 
of  the  Bald  Eagle  Mountains. 


256  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

These  wintered  together,  as  in  years  past, 
their  assembling  place  being  generally  some 
rocky  height  in  the  Seven  Mountains.  Their 
method  of  assembling  was  curious.  The  leader 
on  reaching  the  chosen  spot  would  commence 
an  incessant  bellowing,  which  would  be  taken 
up  by  the  first  bull  within  hearing,  and  sent 
on  by  him  to  the  next,  and  so  on,  until  all  had 
received  the  signal  to  get  together  for  the 
winter.  Then  they  would  begin  to  troop  in 
the  direction  of  their  chief,  whom  they 
obeyed  implicity. 

This  was  the  pioneers'  favorite  time  to 
hunt  them.  They  would  wait  along  the  buf- 
falo paths  which  stretched  across  the  valleys, 
and  over  the  mountains,  and  lucky  were  the 
bison  who  reached  the  rendezvous.  Despite 
this,  the  completed  gatherings  presented  a 
formidable  appearance,  and  would  have 
caused  consternation  to  a  modern  hunter. 

The  winter  of  1800-1801  was  unusually 
severe,  and  the  buffaloes  were  driven  to  dire 
straits  to  keep  from  starvation.  Hunting  had 
become  so  persistent  that  they  hesitated  to 
come  down  permanently  from  their  retreats 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  257 

in  the  Seven  Mountains.  They  made  forays 
into  Penn's  Valley,  Stone  Valley,  Poe  Valley, 
and  Middle  Creek  Valley,  but  every  time  re- 
treated with  unsatisfied  stomachs  and  sadly 
decreased  numbers. 

During  a  spell  of  thawing  in  January, 
1801,  the  carcasses  of  a  dozen  aged  bulls  and 
cows  were  found  in  the  Bear  Meadows.  In 
the  latter  part  of  that  month  was  a  blizzard 
of  unprecedented  severity.  The  famine- 
stricken  buffaloes  forgot  their  fears,  and  one 
night  moved  in  single  file  down  their  old-time 
path  to  the  valley  of  Middle  Creek. 

A  backwoodsman  who  saw  them  counted 
three  hundred  and  forty-five  in  the  proces- 
sion, and  probably  a  score  of  stragglers  fol- 
lowed in  the  course  of  the  next  few  hours. 
They  were  led  by  "Old  Logan,"  a  coal  black 
bull  of  immense  size,  which  seemed  to  the 
settlers  to  have  a  charmed  life.  His  spaci- 
ous sides  were  scarred  with  bullet  marks  and 
wounds  left  by  attacks  from  wolves  and  half 
of  his  tail  was  missing. 

The  pioneer  who  counted  the  procession 
of  course  took  a  shot  at  the  big  fellow,  but 


258  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

his  gun  missed  fire,  and  on  examination 
found  it  was  out  of  order.  That  ended  his 
hunt  for  the  day,  and  he  had  to  content  him- 
self with  recounting  his  experience,  without 
having  a  trophy  to  show  for  it. 

At  daybreak  the  buffaloes  were  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountains,  gazing  out  over  the  dreary, 
snow-buried  valley.  There  was  a  log  cabin 
occupied  by  a  young  man  named  McClellan 
and  his  family  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  be- 
low where  they  were  huddled  together.  The 
hardy  young  pioneer  espied  the  brutes  and 
lay  in  wait  for  them  until  they  got  into  mo- 
tion again  and  filed  down  the  hollow  of  the 
stream  which  flowed  from  the  mountains  into 
Middle  Creek. 

When  they  reached  a  point  opposite  the 
cabin  they  were  surprised  by  a  fusilade  which 
laid  low  first  one,  then  a  second,  then  a  third 
and  a  fourth  of  their  number.  More  would 
have  fallen  had  not  the  hunter  directed  so 
many  volleys  at  "Old  Logan."  His  impene- 
trable hide  rolled  off  the  bullets  and  he 
ambled  away  grunting  amicably. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  259 

Four  buffaloes  before  breakfast  was  a  good 
bag,  and  the  delighted  nimrod  set  to  work 
skinning  them,  and  cutting  out  the  choicest 
portions  of  the  flesh,  giving  his  most  careful 
attention  to  the  tongues.  The  four  carcasses 
proved  to  be  those  of  young  cows,  the  meat 
of  which  was  most  highly  prized,  and  there 
was  less  to  leave  to  the  wolves  and  ravens 
than  had  the  victims  been  old  bulls. 

Half  a  mile  below  where  they  had  been  am- 
bushed the  bison  fell  into  better  luck.  Martin 
Bergstresser,  a  recent  arrival  from  Berks 
county,  had  cleared  a  nice-sized  farm  by  the 
creek,  and  his  first  season's  hay  crop,  a 
goodly  pile,  stood  in  the  lea  of  his  big  log 
barn.  It  was  needed  to  give  feed  for  the 
winter  to  a  number  of  cows  and  sheep,  and  a 
team  of  horses  of  which  the  former  Berks 
countain  was  the  proud  possessor.  The  ani- 
mals were  sidling  close  to  the  stack,  when 
they  scented  the  approaching  buffaloes,  and 
commenced  lowing  and  bleating  with  terror. 

Led  by  "Old  Logan"  the  famished  herd 
broke  through  the  rail  fence,  and  crushing 
the  farm  animals  beneath  their  mighty  rush, 


260  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

were  soon  making  short  work  of  the  hay-pile. 
Bergstresser  was  cutting  trees  nearly  a  mile 
away  when  the  stampede  occurred,  and  if  he 
had  not  heard  the  bellowing  of  his  live  stock, 
the  screams  of  his  wife  and  daughters  would 
have  brought  him  back.  He  dropped  his  axe, 
and  picked  up  his  gun,  hurrying  over  stumps 
and  rocks  to  the  scene  of  the  onslaught. 

Like  his  neighbor,  McClellan,  he  singled 
out  "Old  Logan"  as  his  first  object  of  attack, 
but  it  was  wasting  ammunition.  His  eldest 
daughter,  Katie,  a  girl  of -eighteen,  brought 
out  a  fresh  musket,  and  shot  two  large  buffa- 
loes, which  excited  the  herd  so  much  that  they 
turned  away  from  the  stack. 

At  this  juncture  McClellan  appeared  and 
shot  two  more.  Evidently  the  animals  pos- 
sessed a  strong  communal  feeling,  for  when 
they  saw  their  companions  kicking  convul- 
sively and  covered  with  blood,  they  set  up  the 
most  pitiful  groaning  imaginable. 

"Old  Logan,"  who  had  been  more  worried 
by  the  pioneers'  dogs  than  by  their  bullets, 
saw  the  time  had  come  to  move,  and  striking 
a  trot,  led  his  party  out  of  the  barnyard  and 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  261 

up  the  creek.  When  they  had  gone  it  looked 
as  if  a  cyclone  had  swept  across  the  premises. 

The  barn  was  standing  all  right,  but  the 
fences,  spring-house  and  hay  stack  had  gone, 
and  six  cows,  four  calves  and  35  sheep  lay 
crushed  and  dead  among  the  ruins.  Luckily 
the  horses  were  safe  and  sound  in  the  stable, 
athough  one  had  become  so  excited  he  got 
cast  in  his  stall,  and  was  rescued  barely  in 
time  to  save  his  life. 

McClellan  lingered  around  a  couple  of 
hours,  helping  what  he  could  to  repair  dam- 
ages, and  offering  his  sympathy  to  all  the 
Bergstressers.  Then  he  started  homeward, 
but  when  he  got  within  sight  of  his  clearing 
he  uttered  a  cry  of  surprise  and  horror. 

Three  hundred  buffaloes  were  snorting  and 
trotting  around  the  lot  in  which  his  cabin 
stood,  being  so  numerous  that  the  house  was 
obscured  by  them.  Boldly  the  pioneer  rushed 
through  the  roaring  mass,  only  to  find  "Old 
Logan"  standing  guard  in  front  of  the  cabin 
door.  Too  terrified  to  reason  correctly,  he 
aimed  his  musket  and  fired,  tearing  an  ugly 
hole  in  the  big  bull's  throat. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


Enraged  by  gore  and  pain,  the  monster 
wheeled  about,  and  plunged  headlong  through 
the  door  of  the  cabin.  Being  their  leader, 
the  herd  were  accustomed  to  follow  him 
blindly,  so  when  he  disappeared  into  the 
cabin  the  rest  strove  to  do  likewise. 

Vainly  McClellan  fired  his  musket,  and 
when  the  ammunition  was  exhausted,  he 
drove  his  knife  into  the  beasts'  flanks  to  try 
to  stop  them  in  their  mad  course.  Inside  the 
cabin  were  his  wife  and  three  little  children, 
aged  five,  three  and  one  year;  at  least  they 
were  there  when  he  started  on  the  hunt  a  few 
hours  earlier,  and  he  dreaded  to  think  of 
their  awful  fate.  He  could  not  stem  the  tide, 
and  the  brutes  continued  filing  through  the 
doorway  until  they  were  jammed  in  the 
building  as  tightly  as  wooden  animals  in  a 
toy  Noah's  Ark. 

No  sound  came  from  the  victims  inside ;  all 
he  could  hear  was  the  snorting  and  bumping 
of  the  giant  beasts  in  their  cramped  quarters. 
The  other  bison  outside  stamped  their  hoofs, 
moaning  with  disappointment.  Seeing  he 
could  do  nothing  more,  he  was  about  to  go 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  263 

back  to  Bergstresser's  for  help,  when  he  saw 
his  neighbor  and  three  other  men,  all  carry- 
ing guns,  coming  out  of  the  woods. 

They  had  heard  the  noisy  animals  a  mile 
away,  and  formed  themselves  into  a  posse. 
McClellan  signalled  them  to  remain  where 
they  were,  and  ran  towards  them.  They  held 
a  hasty  council  of  war,  deciding  that  the  only 
thing  to  do  was  to  tear  down  the  log  cabin, 
in  the  hope  that  perhaps  some  of  the  family 
had  hidden  in  a  corner,  and  were  still  living. 

Two  of  the  men  ran  back  to  the  Berg- 
stresser  home  for  axes,  and  while  they  were 
gone  the  rest  climbed  into  trees,  amusing 
themselves  shooting  buffaloes.  When  they 
returned,  accompanied  by  Bergstresser's  wife 
and  daughters,  twenty-five  dead  bison  were 
lying  in  the  lot.  The  live  ones  would  not 
leave  as  long  as  "Old  Logan"  remained 
wedged  in  the  cabin,  but  remained  stupidly 
clustered  around  the  door. 

The  five  men,  armed  with  axes  and  with 
heavy  poles  for  battering  rams,  repaired  to 
the  rear  of  the  shack  and  began  the  work  of 
demolition.  It  had  been  built  to  last,  but  the 


264  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

determined  men  soon  made  a  generous  open- 
ing, out  of  which  the  bison,  headed  by  "Old 
Logan"  swarmed  like  giant  bees  from  a  hive. 

The  sight  of  the  king  of  the  buffaloes  with 
his  bearded  throat  a  mass  of  clotted  blood, 
was  too  much  for  McClellan.  He  seized  a  gun 
and  shot  the  brute  through  the  head.  The  old 
fellow  was  slow  to  die,  running  bellowing 
hideously  for  three  hundred  yards  before  he 
fell  and  became  rigid.  The  entire  herd  fol- 
lowed him  and  surrounded  his  prostrate 
form,  the  air  resounding  with  their  moans  as 
they  battled  with  one  another  to  lick  his 
wounds. 

The  men  entered  the  cabin,  and  were  horri- 
fied to  have  their  worst  fears  realized.  On  the 
earthern  floor,  crushed  deep  into  the  mud  by 
the  impress  of  the  cruel  hoofs,  were  the  re- 
mains of  the  unfortunate  McClellan's  wife 
and  three  children.  Strong  man  of  the  woods 
that  he  was  he  dropped  down  in  a  faint,  and 
it  was  over  an  hour  before  he  could  be  resus- 
citated. 

When  he  came  to  himself  he  was  led 
trembling  like  a  leaf  to  the  Bergstresser 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  265 

home,  and  put  to  bed.  It  was  useless  to  follow 
the  buffaloes  any  more  that  day,  as  all  the 
men  were  out  of  ammunition.  They  buried 
the  mangled  bodies  of  the  family  under  the 
earthen  floor  in  the  log  cabin,  walled  up  the 
door  and  the  opening  that  had  been  made  to 
let  out  the  buffaloes,  leaving  them  to  sleep 
their  last  sleep  in  what  was  so  recently  their 
home,  but  now  their  mausoleum. 

When  the  bereaved  husband  and  father  re- 
covered sufficiently  he  suggested  to  Berg- 
stresser  that  they  exterminate  the  surviving 
bison.  Bergstresser  was  enthusiastic  over 
the  idea,  and  the  two  men  started  on  horse- 
back, one  riding  towards  the  river  and  the 
other  towards  the  headwaters  of  Middle 
Creek,  to  invite  the  settlers  to  join  a  hunt  of 
extermination. 

Meanwhile  there  was  another  heavy  snow- 
fall, but  every  man  invited  accepted  with 
alacrity.  About  fifty  hunters  assembled  at 
the  Bergstresser  home,  and  marched  like  an 
invading  army  in  the  direction  of  the  moun- 
tains. They  were  out  two  days  before  dis- 
covering their  quarry,  as  the  fresh  snow  had 


266  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

covered  all  the  buffalo  paths.  The  brutes 
were  all  huddled  together  up  to  their  necks 
in  snow  in  the  great  "Sink"  in  the  White 
Mountains  and  the  hunters,  looking  down  on 
them,  estimated  their  numbers  at  three  hun- 
dred. 

When  they  got  among  the  animals  they 
found  them  numb  from  cold  and  hunger,  but 
had  they  been  physically  able  they  could  not 
have  moved,  so  deeply  were  they  "crusted" 
in  the  drift.  The  work  of  slaughter  quickly 
began.  Some  used  guns,  but  the  most  killed 
them  by  cutting  their  throats  with  long 
knives. 

The  snow  was  too  deep  to  attempt  skinning 
them,  but  the  tongues  were  saved,  and  these 
the  backwoodsmen  shoved  into  the  pockets 
of  their  leather  coats  until  they  could  carry 
no  more. 

After  the  last  buffalo  had  been  dispatched 
the  triumphant  huntsmen  marched  down  to 
the  valley,  singing  German  hymns.  It  was  a 
horrible  sight  they  left  behind  them.  Three 
hundred  dead  buffaloes  stood  upright  in  the 
frozen  "crust,"  most  with  jaws  broken,  and 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  267 

all  with  tongues  gone,  and  the  ice  about  them 
resembled  a  sheet  of  crimson  glass. 

Later  in  the  season  some  of  the  hunters 
returned  to  see  if  they  could  procure  a  few 
of  the  hides,  but  the  alternate  freezes  and 
thaws  had  rendered  them  worthless.  In  the 
spring  and  summer  travellers  crossing  dis- 
tant ridges  could  notice  one  portion  of  the 
sky  black  with  the  pinions  of  huge  birds. 
They  were  the  carrion-seekers,  bald  eagles, 
golden  eagles,  a  half  dozen  kinds  of  hawks, 
buzzards,  ravens,  crows,  which  picked  clean 
the  bones  of  Pennsylvania's  last  herd  of 
bison. 

Whether  they  deserved  their  awful  fate 
because  the  dumbness  of  "Old  Logan,"  their 
leader,  caused  the  trampling  to  death  of  a 
pioneer  family  is  difficult  to  judge,  but  they 
paid  the  penalty,  and  their  executioners  were 
content  to  rob  posterity  of  these  valuable 
game  animals.  To  this  day  the  barren  flat 
where  the  McClellan  cabin  stood  is  known  as 
"The  Buffalo  Field,"  and  on  winter  nights  it 
is  averred  that  the  tramp  of  hoofs  is  heard 
incessantly  pounding  the  hard  earth  in  a 
ghostly  stampede. 


XVIII. 
McELHATTAN  AND  HIS  SPRINGS 


ILLIAM  McELHATTAN  ar- 
rived at  the  banks  of  the 
stream  which  has  since 
borne  his  name,  in  the 
spring  of  1771,  and  at  once 
commenced  clearing  a 
farm. 

Before  he  had  gone  very 
far  his  shrewd  Scotch-Irish 
mind,  for  he  WES  a  native  of  Derry,  perceived 
the  need  of  a  mill  in  the  locality.  The  water 
power  was  inexhaustible,  and  the  growing 
number  of  settlers  would  guarantee  a  pros- 
perous business.  The  mill  was  a  well-built 
affair,  and  cost  more  than  any  structure  of 
its  kind  in  the  West  Branch  Valley. 

But  he  had  not  reckoned  on  troubles  with 
the  Indians,  which  would  prove  such  a  hind- 
rance to  agriculture  that  at  times  it  seemed 
as  if  a  mill  was  superfluous.  Being  of  a 
friendly  disposition  and  given  to  joking  with 

268 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  269 

the  redskins,  he  could  not  see  why  others 
were  continually  embroiled  with  them. 

For  a  long  time  after  the  mill  was  erected, 
it  was  an  object  of  great  curiosity  to  the  ab- 
origines. They  crowded  about  the  machin- 
ery in  stolid  admiration  until  it  seemed  as  if 
an  accident  would  result.  Many  a  white  man 
would  have  gotten  angry  and  used  bad  lan- 
guage, or  driven  them  away,  but  not  so  with 
William  McElhattan.  He  encouraged  the 
copper-colored  visitors,  made  them  presents 
of  flour,  and  treated  their  chiefs  to  whiskey. 

He  had  such  a  following  of  savages  that 
the  other  settlers  said  his  name  should  have 
been  "William  Penn"  and  not  William  Mc- 
Elhattan. He  always  maintained  that  his 
sociability  paid  and  that  if  the  rest  had  fol- 
lowed the  same  policy,  there  would  have  been 
no  "Great  Runaway"  with  all  its  attendant 
losses  of  life  and  property.  When  it  came, 
and  all  the  other  settlers  fled  for  their  lives 
from  Indian  massacre,  he  held  his  ground, 
and  was  said  to  have  been  drinking  whiskey 
with  several  of  the  chiefs  in  the  pine  grove 
below  his  mill  while  the  frightened  pioneers 


270  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

were  going  down  the  river  in  their  canoes  as 
fast  as  the  current  would  carry  them. 

This  earned  him  the  title  of  renegade, 
which  was  undeserved.  He  merely  knew  the 
best  way  to  protect  his  interests.  His  near- 
est white  neighbor  had  resided  two  miles 
from  him,  while  his  nearest  Indian  neighbor 
was  located  a  little  more  than  a  mile  dis- 
tant. The  flat  now  known  as  Wayne  town- 
ship, was  pretty  well  cleared  of  Red  Men 
even  in  William  McElhattan's  time.  The  old 
chieftain  Hyloshotkee,  which  translated 
means  Ginseng,  had  his  lodge-house  at  the 
entrance  to  the  Gap  in  the  Bald  Eagle  Moun- 
tains, on  the  campground  where  the  five 
springs  are  located. 

In  an  earlier  day  when  Indians  were  more 
numerous  they  camped  by  the  hundreds 
around  the  Springs,  but  with  the  advance  of 
the  white  men  they  had  withdrawn  to  Sugar 
Valley,  where  they  disputed  with  one  another 
for  the  possession  of  its  limited  boundaries. 
But  Hyloshotkee  hung  on  partly  because  he 
loved  the  scenes  of  his  youth,  and  partly  be- 
cause his  former  fellows  had  deserted  him 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  271 

for  younger  leaders.  He  had  five  sons,  but 
the  four  oldest  had  gone  away,  leaving  only 
the  youngest,  Choleesaw,  or  Pine  Leaf,  to 
look  after  the  old  warrior  and  his  aged 
squaw. 

Hyloshotkee  was  from  the  start  one  of  the 
most  interested  and  persistent  visitors  to  the 
water-mill.  After  the  acquaintance  had 
reached  the  point  where  he  took  to  drinking 
McElhattan's  whiskey,  he  came  every  clear 
day,  and  darkness  alone  drove  him  off.  White 
men  from  a  distance  who  visited  the  mill  per- 
haps twice  a  year,  always  noticed  the  old  In- 
dian, and  laughed  about  him,  calling  him 
"McElhattan's  watchman."  He  never  made 
any  attempt  to  help,  which  sometimes  ang- 
ered the  farmers  when  they  had  extra  large 
loads  to  be  handled  in  a  limited  space  of  time. 

After  he  had  gotten  to  know  McElhattan 
well  enough  to  have  confidence  in  him,  he 
began  urging  him  to  come  out  to  the  Springs 
for  a  game  supper.  The  miller  was  too  busy 
to  be  much  of  a  hunter,  but  he  had  killed 
three  elks  one  afternoon  which  threatened  to 
make  havoc  in  his  wheatfield.  He  had  not 


272  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

attempted  to  skin  them,  but  strung  them  up 
by  the  hind  legs  from  some  trees  along  the 
fence-row  as  a  warning  to  other  elks  of 
marauding  tendencies.  No  more  elks  ap- 
peared, but  instead  the  number  of  ravens  and 
crows  grew  so  tremendous  that  their  croak- 
ing and  cawing  drowned  the  roar  of  the 
water-wheel. 

"My  son,  Choleesaw,  is  a  great  hunter," 
the  old  Indian  would  expostulate.  "Every 
afternoon  he  comes  to  us  with  some  fresh 
trophy  of  the  '•Hase :  one  day  it  is  chetowaik 
or  plovers,  the  next  day  it  is  mushkodasa  or 
grouse,  another  it  is  wawa  or  wild  geese,  and 
sheshebwuz  or  wild  ducks,"  This  seemed  very 
tempting,  especially  when  he  added:  "My 
wife  knows  how  to  cook  game  better  than 
any  squaw  in  all  these  valleys." 

One  Sunday  afternoon  in  the  early  autumn, 
the  old  Indian  appeared,  and  explained  that 
his  son  had  shot  two  buffaloes  which  were 
crossing  the  Spring  Run  Ridge,  and  had 
brought  home  their  tongues  as  the  "piece  de 
resistence,"  but  in  addition  there  were  a  num- 
ber of  grouse,  woodcocks,  and  plovers  hang- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  273 

ing  at  the  camp  ready  to  be  cooked.  "We 
will  serve  the  game  with  plenty  of  roasted 
ears  of  Indian  corn,  and  potatoes  cooked  only 
as  the  Indians  can  prepare  them." 

McElhattan  accepted  the  invitation,  and 
was  about  to  start  off  with  his  Indian  friend, 
when  his  wife  called  him  into  the  house.  She 
informed  him  that  he  must  take  her  and  their 
three  children,  or  remain  at  home  himself. 
It  was  not  that  she  relished  the  idea  of  being 
entertained  by  Indians,  but  because  she  was 
afraid  to  remain  and  guard  the  premises. 
"If  we  die,  we  die  together,"  was  her  way  of 
putting  it. 

McElhattan  was  for  cancelling  the  visit 
but  he  could  see  by  the  Indian's  expression 
it  meant  an  insult  and  strained  relations,  so, 
trusting  to  his  previous  good  luck,  he  started, 
followed  by  his  wife,  daughter,  two  little 
boys,  and  their  faithful  watchdog,  Felix. 

The  eldest  child  was  a  singularly  pretty 
girl  of  seventeen  named  Vashti,  who  appar- 
ently had  something  of  the  stubbornness  of 
her  Biblical  name-sake.  For  a  year  past  her 
parents  had  been  trying  their  utmost  to 


274  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

marry  her  to  young  Abner  Sweeny,  son  of  a 
prosperous  landowner  at  Fort  Augusta.  The 
young  man  was  a  great  horseman,  and,  ac- 
companied by  his  colored  servant,  made  trips 
every  two  months  to  visit  the  beautiful 
Vashti  and  persuade  her  to  become  his  wife. 
He  was  a  fine  looking  fellow,  with  a  heavy 
mane  of  red  hair,  and  stood  over  six  feet  in 
height.  He  had  on  one  occasion  brought  her 
a  ring  with  a  red  sparkling  stone  in  it  that 
was  bought  in  Philadelphia,  and  he  had  to  do 
a  lot  of  coaxing  before  she  would  accept  it. 
When  she  finally  took  it  she  carried  it  in 
her  hand  until  he  had  gone,  and  then  hid  it 
away  somewhere  in  the  house.  When  her 
mother  accused  her  of  having  lost  it  she  only 
smiled  and  said  that  "a  ring  from  a  man 
you're  not  in  love  with  is  not  worth  hunting 
for."  All  this  was  a  grief  to  her  parents, 
who  were  not  worldly  people  in  any  sense  of 
the  word,  but  sincere  and  simple  Cavinists; 
their  anxiety  for  the  "brilliant  match"  being 
founded  on  the  desire  to  get  their  promising 
offspring  out  of  the  wilderness  into  a  com- 
munity where  she  would  have  more  pleasure 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  275 

and  comforts.  They  accused  her  of  being 
fond  of  first  one  young  man,  and  then  an- 
other, as  the  cause  of  her  indifference  to 
Sweeny,  but  she  pursued  the  even  tenor  of 
her  heart. 

Wilful  as  she  generally  was,  McElhattan 
was  surprised  when  she  consented  to  go  to 
the  Indian  supper  without  an  argument.  She 
even  went  to  the  bit  of  broken  mirror  that 
the  miller  had  fastened  on  the  side  of  the 
house  for  use  when  he  shaved,  and  smoothed 
and  adjusted  her  wonderful  golden  hair. 
Backwoods  girl  that  she  was,  she  would  have 
attracted  attention  in  any  ballroom  in  Phila- 
delphia, her  blonde  coloring  was  so  excep- 
tional, and  her  slender  figure  so  lithe  and 
graceful.  Her  violet  eyes  were  too  small; 
that  perhaps  was  the  only  flaw  a  beauty  ex- 
pert could  detect. 

When  the  party  neared  the  Springs  they 
could  see  thin  columns  of  blue  smoke  rising 
from  the  fires  which  were  built  in  depres- 
sions in  the  ground  blocked  in  with  stones, 
Over  one  fire  an  aged  squaw  in  a  green 
blanket  was  bending.  Over  another  appeared 


276  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

the  broad  shoulders  and  sinewy  back  of  a 
young  Indian  boy,  free  of  clothing  to  his 
waist,  and  wearing  a  pair  of  buckskin  trous- 
ers. His  manly  bearing  gave  an  air  of  dig- 
nity to  a  "get  up"  that  would  have  appeared 
shocking  in  most  white  men. 

As  they  drew  near,  the  squaw,  with  Indian- 
like  indifference,  kept  on  with  her  cooking, 
but  the  young  fellow  turned  around,  his  eyes 
falling  full  on  the  beautiful  Vashti.  His 
pleased  surprise  was  so  great  that  he  dropped 
the  wooden  fork  on  which  he  was  broiling  a 
grouse,  and  it  fell  into  the  coals,  sending  up 
an  appetizing  odor.  The  young  girl  seemed 
to  be  equally  surprised,  for  she  stood  still  for 
half  a  minute  gazing  at  her  handsome  Indian 
admirer.  Then  the  formal  introductions 
were  made,  and  the  party  fraternized  as  if  of 
one  race. 

The  supper  was  a  great  success,  especially 
as  McElhattan  had  brought  a  bottle  of  Lan- 
caster county  whiskey,  which  contributed  to 
the  exuberant  spirits  of  the  older  people.  To 
have  come  upon  them  suddenly  would  have 
made  one  believe  the  millenium  had  arrived. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  277 

Choleesaw  and  Vashti  continued  exchanging 
glances,  but  both  being  a  trifle  shy,  it  was  not 
until  the  spirit  of  the  Lancaster  county  whis- 
key had  taken  possession  of  their  elders  that 
their  acquaintance  made  full  headway. 

The  handsome  young  Indian  could  only 
speak  a  few  words  of  English,  and  Vashti 
knew  about  a  like  number  of  words  in  the 
Seneca  dialect,  but  conversation  was  for- 
gotten in  the  ardor  of  youth.  Choleesaw  sug- 
gested that  Vashti  go  with  him  to  look  at  his 
fish  pond,  and  she  gladly  accepted.  A  short 
distance  below  the  Springs  he  had  dammed 
the  little  stream  which  ran  from  them,  and 
in  it  he  had  put  many  kinds  of  beautiful  fish. 
Among  them  were  some  small  silver-colored 
ones,  of  a  kind  Vashti  had  never  seen  before. 
She  seemed  greatly  pleased,  especially  when 
the  young  Indian  caught  some  in  his  hands, 
and  gave  her  a  close  view  of  them. 

Choleesaw  saw  raccoon  tracks  leading  to 
the  banks  of  the  pond,  and  became  excited, 
his  black  eyes  flashing  with  the  animation  of 
the  true  hunter.  They  followed  the  tiny 
tracks  some  distance  back  into  the  forest, 


278  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

where  they  lost  them.  Vashti  told  her  com- 
panion she  would  secure  for  him  the  loan  of 
her  father's  animal  trap,  and  he  could  catch 
the  furry  thief,  and  lots  like  him.  The  shades 
of  evening  had  deepened  in  the  always  dark 
vale  of  hemlocks,  and  Vashti  began  to  feel 
cold.  She  rubbed  her  hands  together,  which 
aroused  the  sympathy  of  the  Indian,  who 
took  them  in  his,  and  warmed  them  in  his 
strong  grasp.  Then  he  embraced  her  and 
kissed  her  a  dozen  times  before  their  stroll 
had  ended  and  they  rejoined  the  merrymak- 
ers at  the  camp-fire. 

A  full  silvery  moon  was  just  coming  up 
over  the  fringe  of  pine  trees  on  the  edge  of 
the  mountain,  contributing  largely  to  the 
pretty  picture.  McElhattan,  who  was  feel- 
ing good,  was  talking  loudly  about  wanting 
to  buy  the  Springs  from  Hyloshotkee  and  the 
old  Indian  was  shaking  his  head.  When  he 
saw  the  young  couple  returning  his  expres- 
sion lit  up,  and  he  pointed  to  the  fair  Vashti, 
saying  in  his  broken  English:  "Mister  Mc- 
Elhattan, if  you  give  me  that  young  girl  for 
my  son,  you  shall  have  the  Springs."  The 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  279 

pioneer  laughed  heartily,  but  made  no  reply, 
and  the  conversation  drifted  into  other 
channels. 

When  it  was  time  to  return  home,  the 
white  people  expressed  their  sincere  grati- 
tude for  the  delightful  evening,  McElhattan 
declaring  it  was  the  happiest  night  since  he 
had  left  Derry.  He  even  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  path  after  the  final  handshake  and  re- 
cited a  poem  which  he  imagined  was  ap- 
propriate. Without  waiting  to  be  invited 
Choleesaw  joined  the  party,  leaving  McEl- 
hattan, his  wife  and  the  two  little  boys  lead 
the  way,  while  he  sauntered  along  back  of 
them  with  Vashti.  By  the  time  the  mill  was 
reached,  the  beautiful  girl  knew  why  she  had 
been  cold  to  Abner  Sweeny  and  her  other 
suitors ;  she  had  been  waiting  for  her  Fate. 

The  next  morning  when  Hyloshotkee  came 
to  the  mill,  his  son  was  with  him.  Unlike 
his  father,  he  appeared  anxious  to  work  and 
helped  unload  several  farm-wagons  which  ar- 
rived during  the  day.  Choleesaw  played  his 
part  well,  strengthening  his  tie  with  Vashti 
daily,  but  never  giving  her  parents  cause  for 


280  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

suspicion.  He  was  apparently  aways  busy 
and  kept  his  place  so  well  that  he  cooked  and 
ate  his  own  meals  in  the  pine  grove  below 
the  race. 

The  mail  carrier  visited  the  locality  infre- 
quently, but  one  day  he  brought  a  letter  for 
Vashti.  It  was  from  Sweeny,  saying  he  was 
coming  on  a  visit  the  following  week.  Her 
parents  were  present  when  she  received  it, 
and  there  was  no  use  hiding  the  contents 
from  them.  They  urged  her  to  accept  this 
grand  opportunity  to  get  out  of  the  wilder- 
ness and  mingle  in  a  world  of  comparative 
refinement.  But  Vashti  was  stubborn  and  a 
poor  actress;  she  told  them  that  she  would 
never  marry  the  prosperous  youth,  and 
furthermore  this  time  would  hide  in  the 
woods  when  he  arrived. 

On  the  morning  before  his  proposed  ar- 
rival, McElhattan  took  Vashti  by  the  should- 
ers and  led  her  to  the  log  smoke-house,  which 
stood  at  the  edge  of  the  pine  grove,  shoved 
her  in,  locking  and  bolting  the  door.  She  sub- 
mitted without  a  scene,  and  her  parents  felt 
that,  despite  her  threats,  she  would  relent 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  281 

when  the  time  came.  When  they  brought  in 
her  dinner  they  found  her  in  good  spirits, 
and  she  was  singing  when  they  appeared  with 
her  supper. 

She  had  told  her  Indian  lover  that  her  par- 
ents would  probably  lock  her  up  to  prevent 
her  hiding  from  Sweeny,  therefore  he  was 
not  surprised  when  he  saw  from  a  point  of 
vantage  in  the  mill,  her  father  gently,  but 
firmly,  thrusting  her  into  captivity  in  the 
smoke-house.  He  continued  his  work,  and 
when  it  was  dark  said  "good  night"  to  his 
employer,  starting  ostensibly  for  his  father's 
camp  at  the  Springs.  He  whistled  to  Felix 
and  the  dog  followed  him,  wagging  its  tail. 

He  did  not  go  very  far,  but  lurked  in  the 
woods  until  the  last  candle  was  snuffed  in  the 
comfortable  McElhattan  home;  then  he  stole 
out  stealthily,  followed  by  the  faithful  dog, 
emerging  from  the  woods  at  the  rear  of  the 
smoke-house.  He  watched  the  miller's  home 
until  he  was  sure  all  were  in  dreamland,  and 
ran  quickly  to  the  smoke-house  door.  Deftly 
prying  off  the  hasp  he  had  the  lock  in  his 


282  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

hand  and  the  door  wide  open  in  less  than  a 
minute. 

Vashti  leaped  into  his  arms,  and  he  started 
for  the  Gap  on  a  trot,  carrying  his  precious 
burden,  with  the  faithful  Felix  bounding 
along  beside.  They  stopped  for  a  minute  at 
old  Hyloshotkee's  wigwam  to  tell  him  of  their 
safe  escape  and  then  continued  their  journey 
into  the  mountains. 

Bright  and  early  the  next  morning  Hylo- 
shotkee  was  at  the  mill,  smilingly  wishing  a 
"good  morning"  to  the  dejected  miller. 
"Don't  look  so  cross,"  he  said,  as  well  as  his 
poor  English  would  permit,  "my  son  has  got 
your  girl,  now  you  are  the  owner  of  the  five 
Springs." 

The  humor  of  the  situation  appealed  to 
the  Irishman,  and  he  replied:  "If  it's  done, 
it's  done;  I'd  rather  have  a  smiling  bit  of 
land  and  water  than  an  unsmiling  daughter." 

In  three  days  Choleesaw  and  Vashti  re- 
turned to  their  former  haunts,  and  were 
speedily  forgiven  by  McElhattan  and  his 
wife.  "We  were  married  by  a  German  mis- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  283 

sionary  we  met  on  the  mountain,"  explained 
the  bride. 

William  McElhattan  let  it  go  at  that,  pro- 
vided Choleesaw  would  adopt  an  English 
rendering  of  his  name.  William  Pine  was 
his  selection,  partly  out  of  compliment  to  his 
magnanimous  father-in-law,  partly  in  trans- 
lation of  his  own  name.  And  the  Pine  family 
lived  happily  ever  afterwards. 


XIX. 
THE  COURAGE  OF  PETER  PENTZ 


HE  best  view  of  the  big  "bare 
place"  on  the  Bald  Eagle 
Mountain  between  McEl- 
hattan  and  Castanea  is  ob- 
tained from  the  new  State 
Road  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  river.  The  long,  un- 
broken ridge  stretches  like 
a  moss-green  colored  wall, 
and  is  so  narrow  in  some  places  on  the  comb 
or  summit  that  one  can  sit  astride  of  the 
rocks  with  one  leg  in  the  West  Branch  Valley 
and  the  other  in  the  Valley  of  the  Kammer- 
diner. 

There  are  two  bare  places  on  the  long 
ridge;  one,  comparatively  small  directly 
above  the  village  of  McElhattan,  and  the 
other,  a  great  lengthy  space  like  the  scalded 
flank  of  a  backyard  cat,  and  covering  over 
fifty  acres,  stretching  from  the  summit  two- 
thirds  of  the  way  down  the  mountain,  about 

284 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  285 

midway  between  the  small  glen  known  as  the 
"Little  Gap"  and  the  gap  at  Castanea. 

Both  bare  places  are  noticeable  for  miles 
with  their  masses  of  gray- white  rock;  the 
smaller  one  has  a  large  charred  stump  near 
the  centre  which  looks  at  first  glance  like  a 
crouching  bear.  The  larger  one  is  of  more 
uneven  contour  and  abounds  with  fissures, 
crevices  and  caverns. 

Bears,  foxes  and  raccoons  have  been  taken 
out  of  the  caves  within  the  past  twenty 
years,  and  to  judge  from  the  bones  found  in 
some  of  these  hiding  places,  they  must  have 
abounded  with  animals  a  hundred  years  ago. 
The  early  settlers  in  the  valley  paid  little  at- 
tention to  the  animals  which  nowadays  are 
regarded  as  "dangerous."  They  would 
hardly  go  to  the  trouble  of  loading  their  mus- 
kets to  shoot  a  bear.  "They  are  our  hogs," 
the  Indians  would  say,  and  the  whites  de- 
clared if  such  were  the  case  "they  were  wel- 
come to  them." 

Foxes  gave  them  some  annoyance,  but 
their  real  enemies  were  the  wolves  and  pan- 
thers. That  the  panther  was  the  most  feared 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


is  evidenced  by  the  fact  that  "panther 
stories"  are  the  most  numerous  of  all  the 
hunting  reminiscences  of  Central  Pennsyl- 
vania. They  figured  in  the  witchcraft  stories 
as  well ;  it  was  much  more  impressive  for  the 
witch  to  assume  the  form  of  a  panther  than 
a  wolf,  a  wildcat,  or  a  domestic  animal. 

Lions  in  British  East  Africa  are  hardly 
more  numerous  than  were  panthers  in  the 
West  Branch  Valley  up  to  the  end  of  the  first 
quarter  of  the  Nineteenth  Century.  Even  in 
Eastern  Pennsylvania  they  abounded,  50  be- 
ing killed  in  Luzerne  county  in  1818.  Though 
hundreds  are  slain,  their  diminishing  num- 
bers were  due  principally  to  the  killing  off  of 
their  chief  food  supply,  the  buffaloes,  elk  and 
deer. 

The  first  settlers  at  the  foot  of  the  Bald 
Eagle  Mountain  which  contains  the  "bare 
places"  attempted  to  raise  cattle,  sheep  and 
hogs.  This  suited  the  panthers  exactly,  as 
calves,  lambs  and  pigs  were  easier  to  cap- 
ture, and  gave  up  without  the  tussle  common 
to  the  wild  creatures.  There  was  one  pan- 
ther which  gave  no  end  of  trouble  for  six 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  287 

years.  Those  who  saw  him  at  close  range, 
for  he  was  very  bold,  and  would  carry  off  a 
sheep  out  of  a  barnyard,  stated  that  he  had  a 
tawney  matted  mane  like  a  lion.  If  he  were 
seen  today  he  would  be  classed  as  an  "escaped 
lion  from  a  circus,"  but  as  there  were  no  cir- 
cuses in  this  country  in  those  days,  he 
couldn't  have  been  that. 

Experimental  zoologists  would  have  tick- 
eted him  as  a  hybrid  between  a  panther  and 
a  shepherd  dog.  But  he  was  in  most  proba- 
bility a  particularly  masculine  panther,  a  ver- 
itable Felis  Couguar  Rex.  A  list  of  the 
settlers  who  had  had  a  shot  at  or  hunted  the 
elusive  monster  would  sound  like  a  taxpay- 
ers' list  from  the  Great  Island  to  the  Long 
Reach.  The  subject  of  destroying  it  had  been 
discussed  with  the  redoubtable  Peter  Pentz, 
but  he  had  been  too  busy  fighting  Indians  to 
give  much  attention  to  the  outlaws  of  the 
animal  kingdom. 

On  one  occasion  when  there  was  a  lull  in 
the  hostilities  with  the  Red  Men  he  was  pay- 
ing a  visit  to  Isaac  Dougherty,  whose  cabin 
was  located  where  McElhattan  Run  empties 


288  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

into  the  Susquehanna.  The  evening  of  his 
arrival  he  was  sitting  with  Dougherty  on  a 
bench  under  one  of  the  giant  linnwood  trees 
on  the  river  bank,  discussing  some  of  their 
expeditions  against  the  Indians  of  ten  years 
before,  when  they  heard  their  dogs  barking 
and  a  loud  commotion  in  the  barnyard.  Seiz- 
ing their  guns  with  which  they  had  been  test- 
ing their  old-time  skill  on  a  very  alert  loon 
in  the  river,  they  ran  in  the  direction  of  the 
racket. 

Five  young  steers  were  huddled  in  a  mass 
in  one  corner,  lowing  pitifully.  A  full  panel 
of  the  slab  fence  was  down,  and  around  it 
were  several  pools  of  blood.  There  was  a 
bloody  path  three  feet  wide  leading  from  the 
barn  yard  into  the  woods,  looking  as  if  every 
inch  of  the  way  had  been  contested  in  some 
fierce  combat.  The  men  were  good  runners 
and  soon  overtook  the  warring  elements. 

There  was  a  level  piece  of  ground  covered 
with  walnut  trees,  that  had  been  cleared  of 
underbrush  long  ago  by  the  herds  of  buffa- 
loes. In  the  semi-darkness  they  made  out 
the  prostrate  form  of  a  red  and  white 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  289 

spotted  steer;  on  it  was  crouched  a  huge 
yellowish  animal  with  a  long  hood  of  matted 
hair  like  a  lion. 

Nearby  lay  the  two  hounds,  panting  and 
occasionally  giving  vent  to  howls  of  pain. 
"Fells  Couguar  Rex"  was  clearly  master  of 
the  situation.  When  he  saw  the  two  hunt- 
ers he  gritted  his  teeth  so  audibly  that  they 
heard  it  plainly  twenty  yards  away.  Then 
he  buried  his  head  in  a  hole  he  had  ripped 
in  the  carcass  of  the  steer,  taking  a  last  long 
drink  of  its  blood,  and  turned  and  bounded 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  steep  face  of  the 
mountain.  Both  men  fired  their  muskets, 
but  their  shots  went  wide. 

There  was  no  time  to  put  the  suffering 
hounds  out  of  their  misery,  so  the  men  ran 
after  the  retreating  monster,  tracking  him 
easily  in  the  soft  ground  and  by  occasional 
drops  of  blood  which  dripped  from  his  gorged 
mouth. 

The  climb  up  the  mountain  was  steep  and 
perilous  after  dark,  but  Peter  Pentz  and 
Isaac  Dougherty  had  never  turned  back  for 
man  or  beast,  and  this  time  they  were  thor- 


290  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

oughly  aroused.  The  panther  was  light  of 
foot,  but  at  times  he  would  break  a  twig  in 
his  leaps,  which  kept  his  pursuers  from  los- 
ing him,  as  there  was  no  tracking  on  the 
rocky,  mountain  slope,  and  it  was  too  late 
at  night  to  detect  any  drops  of  blood.  "He's 
making  for  the  bare  place,"  whispered  Pentz, 
who  was  a  faster  climber  than  Dougherty. 
He  ran  almost  as  fast  as  the  animal,  but 
stopped  every  few  minutes  to  allow  his  com- 
panion to  catch  up  with  him. 

At  length  they  reached  the  lower  end  of  the 
bare  place  just  in  time  to  see  the  tail  of  the 
panther  disappearing  into  the  great  cavern 
near  the  middle  of  the  stony  desert.  "We've 
got  him!"  shouted  Peter  Pentz  in  triumph. 
The  two  men  climbed  up  to  the  mouth  of  the 
cave,  which  was  so  low,  that  a  human  being 
could  only  enter  by  crawling  on  his  belly. 
They  lit  a  fire  from  a  quantity  of  pine  cones 
that  had  blown  from  the  forest  above,  and 
soon  had  a  brilliant  blaze  started.  On  it  they 
threw  a  couple  of  logs  which  they  found  in 
a  cranny  in  the  rocks. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  291 

When  the  wind  blew  from  the  west  the  fire- 
light illuminated  the  cavern,  but  disclosed 
no  signs  of  the  panther.  "There  must  be  a 
-  bend  in  the  passage,"  remarked  Dougherty. 
Peter  Pentz  took  the  two  muzzle-loading 
rifles  and  primed  them  carefully.  Then  he 
got  down  on  "all  fours,"  dragging  a  gun 
under  each  arm  and  with  a  lighted  pine  torch 
in  his  mouth  he  crawled  into  the  cave.  "If  1 
don't  get  him  the  first  shot,  I'll  get  him  the 
second,"  was  his  cheerful  au  revoir. 

Dougherty  had  seen  his  friend  in  a  good 
many  tight  palces  in  the  past,  but  he  could 
not  help  wonder  what  the  panther  would  be 
doing  if  he  dodged  the  first  charge.  The  ani- 
mal must  have  had  his  stronghold  deep  in 
the  bowels  of  the  earth,  for  it  seemed  a  good 
ten  minutes  before  the  muffled  report  of  the 
rifle  was  heard.  "He's  got  him  the  first 
shot,"  murmured  Dougherty  in  thankfulness. 

But  when,  two  minutes  later,  another  re- 
port emanated  from  the  cavern  his  worst 
fears  were  awakened.  Drawing  his  hunting 
knife  he  crawled  into  the  opening  in  search 
of  his  absent  friend.  When  he  came  to  the 


292  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

bend  in  the  passage  he  called  "Peter,  Peter, 
are  you  alive?"  Immediately  came  the  cheery 
answer,  "Yes,  yes,  Isaac,  but  I  had  to  kill 
two  of  them." 

Dougherty  hurried  his  "snail's  pace"  as 
best  he  could,  until  by  the  wavering  glare  of 
his  torch  he  could  see  the  outlines  of  Peter 
Pentz  and  his  victims.  They  lay  one  behind 
the  other  in  the  narrow  gallery,  but  the  fore- 
most one  was  Felis  Couguar  Rex  with  a  bullet 
hole  through  his  mustard  colored  skull.  The 
second  was  a  female ;  she,  too,  had  been  shot 
through  the  head. 

Death  had  been  instantaneous  in  both 
cases  and  they  lay  with  heads  resting  on  their 
paws,  like  huge  cats  fallen  asleep. 

"When  I  got  within  three  feet  of  the  hairy 
one,  he  rushed  at  me,  but  my  bullet  was 
speedier  and  he  dropped.  The  she  one  tried 
to  do  the  same  thing,  but  she  was  easy,  as  the 
roof  was  low,  and  I  finished  her  before  she 
could  climb  over  the  body  of  her  mate."  This 
was  the  modest  way  in  which  Peter  Pentz 
described  his  wonderful  "kill." 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


"Over  yonder  in  that  bowl  in  the  rocks  are 
three  cubs,  the  cutest  little  things  you  ever 
saw,"  he  continued.  "We'll  take  them  home 
as  pets."  With  the  enthusiasm  of  a  child 
he  crawled  over  the  two  carcasses  and 
reached  into  the  nest  and  drew  out  the  young 
animals,  which  had  slept  through  their  par- 
ents' execution. 

"We'll  leave  the  dead  ones  here,"  said 
Dougherty,  but  before  they  left  Pentz  scalped 
the  male  carcass,  and  hung  the  trophy,  with 
its  matted  mane,  to  his  belt. 

The  morning  star  was  sole  possessor  of  the 
heavens  when  they  emerged  from  the  gloomy 
labyrinth,  but  it  appeared  a  trifle  droopy  as 
it  dodged  among  the  tops  of  the  tall  pines  on 
the  comb  of  the  Bald  Eagle  Mountain.  Carry- 
ing the  three  cubs  they  returned  to  the 
Dougherty  cabin,  and  after  a  comfortable 
breakfast  spent  the  morning  building  an  en- 
closure for  them.  Peter  Pentz  rounded  out 
the  balance  of  his  visit  in  peace,  but  when 
he  left  for  "down  country,"  he  found  the 
fame  of  his  latest  exploit  had  preceded  him. 

"We  hear  you  killed  the  hairy  panther  in 


294  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

his  cave,"  everyone  would  say.  In  reply  the 
big  red-haired  frontiersman  would  smile 
modestly  and  point  to  the  scalp  with  its  long, 
matted  brownish-yellow  hair,  which  hung  at 
his  belt.  "That's  how  a  good  many  Indians 
would  like  to  wear  my  scalp,"  he  would  add, 
and  then  turn  the  subject  of  the  conversation 
into  other  channels. 


XX. 
TIM  MURPHY'S  GHOST 


N  his  latter  days,  Tim  Mur- 
phy, the  celebrated  sharp- 
shooter of  the  Revolution, 
who  killed  the  British 
General  Frazer  at  the  Bat- 
tle of  Stillwater,  used  to 
confide  to  his  intimate 
friends  that  he  had  once 
seen  a  ghost. 
Tim  was  a  bachelor  and  lived  alone  for 
many  years  in  a  log-cabin  at  the  foot  of  the 
Bad  Eagle  Mountain,  on  the  site  of  what  is 
now  the  summer  resort  known  as  Sylvan 
Dell.  It  was  a  melancholy  looking  shack, 
both  within  and  without,  but  Tim  was  a 
genial  soul  and  his  visitors  forgot  the  sur- 
roundings. The  interior  was  like  a  modern 
hunter's  shanty,  consisting  as  it  did  of  a  sin- 
gle room,  with  a  curtained  bunk  on  one  side, 
and  a  large  open  fireplace  on  the  other. 
Above  the  fireplace  hung  the  trusty  rifle 

295 


296  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

that  had  mortally  wounded  the  British  com- 
mander, and  threw  the  whole  army  of  red- 
coats into  confusion,  causing  the  retreat  to 
Saratoga,  where  they  surrendered.  Below  the 
rifle  hung  an  oval  minature  case  of  gold,  but 
the  portrait  it  contained  was  kept  a  mystery 
by  the  picturesque  old  veteran.  That  it  was 
the  original  of  the  apparition  many  were  cer- 
tain, as  he  always  stoutly  denied  that  Gen- 
eral Frazer's  ghost  had  ever  appeared  to  him. 

Whenever  any  one  returned  from  a  visit 
to  Old  Tim  folks  would  say  "Did  he  tell  you 
about  the  ghost?"  To  which  the  late  visitor 
could  only  reply  that  he  had  said  he  had  once 
seen  one,  but  gave  no  particulars.  One 
Christmas  eve  when  Tim  was  getting  pretty 
aged  he  was  entertaining  Benjamin  Mc- 
Alevy,  an  old  comrade  of  the  Revolution,  who 
had  stopped  off  on  his  way  back  from  a  visit 
to  his  married  daughter  who  lived  in  North- 
ern New  Jersey. 

When  Tim  met  him  on  the  opposite  bank 
of  the  river  with  his  dugout,  in  response  to 
his  familiar  war-whoop,  he  noticed  his  friend 
carried  a  bundle  in  one  hand  and  a  demijohn 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  297 

in  the  other.  "Pray,  what  does  your  bottle 
contain?"  inquired  Tim,  jokingly.  "If  it's 
valuable  stuff  you'd  better  leave  it  on  this 
side,  for  if  our  boat  upsets  it  would  be  a  sin 
to  lose  it."  McAlevy  said  he  would  risk  it, 
arid  they  were  soon  safely  landed  in  front 
of  Tim's  cabin. 

"This  is  for  you,  with  my  son-in-law's 
good  wishes,"  said  the  visitor,  handing  the 
demijohn  to  the  old  sharpshooter.  "It's  the 
best  New  Jersey  Apple-Jack,  fit  to  celebrate 
the  Christmas  of  President  Jackson  or  the 
man  who  licked  the  British  at  Stillwater." 
Old  Tim  was  profuse  in  his  thanks,  and  the 
rest  of  the  afternoon  was  given  over  to  mer- 
riment. 

After  supper,  which  had  sobered  down  the 
two  veterans,  they  drew  their  armchairs  in 
front  of  the  fire,  and  began  to  discuss  the 
past.  Outside  the  wind  was  blowing  in  icy 
gusts  up  the  river,  sometimes  seemingly 
veering  out  of  its  course  to  moan  dismally 
around  the  eaves  of  the  snug  cabin. 

"It  seems  strange,  Tim,  that  you  never 
married,"  old  McAlevy  was  saying.  "My 


298  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

children  and  grandchildren  are  the  greatest 
pleasure  of  my  old  age,  and  I  cherish  the 
memory  of  my  good  wife,  though  she  has 
been  dead  these  twenty  years,  above  anybody 
that  ever  lived,  except  my  mother."  These 
words  put  the  old  bachelor  into  a  silent,  re- 
flective mood.  He  looked  as  if  he  wanted  to 
tell  something  that  had  been  on  his  mind  for 
years,  but  he  was  loath  to  begin. 

McAlevy  watched  him  closely,  wondering 
why  he  had  become  so  quiet,  and  looked  so 
often  at  the  gold  miniature  case  hanging 
above  the  fireplace.  "Wake  up,  old  boy,"  he 
called  to  him,  "come  back  and  tell  me  why 
you  never  gave  a  good  woman  the  pleasure 
of  saying  she  was  your  wife?" 

Tim  remained  quiescent  for  a  couple  of 
minutes  longer  and  then  after  another  look 
at  the  miniature  case,  said,  "You  often  heard 
me  mention  to  you  I'd  seen  a  ghost?"  Mc- 
Alevy admitted  he  had,  but  added,  "Ghosts 
don't  make  wives;  I  want  to  kear  why  you 
never  married." 

"Well,"  replied  the  old  bachelor,  "the  ghost 
and  the  wife  story  are  one;  the  story  you 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  299 

want  to  hear  is  the  part  of  the  ghost  story 
I  never  told  anyone  before. 

"I  was  in  love  once,  about  the  time  I  went 
off  to  fight  for  the  independence  of  our  great 
country.  I  ought  to  have  married  the  girl. 
I  am  sure  she  cared  for  me." 

"Wouldn't  she  wait  until  you  were  must- 
ered out?"  interrupted  McAlevy  in  his  ex- 
citement. 

"Not  quite  like  that,"  answered  Tim  apolo- 
getically. "But  to  go  ahead  with  my  story; 
you  recall  my  sister,  Ellen,  who  was  married 
to  Evan  Edwards  and  lived  near  old  Steitze- 
town,  now  Lebanon  ?  Well,  Evan  made  a  die 
of  it  after  they  had  been  married  only  a  few 
years,  and  I  used  to  go  down  there  to  attend 
the  "Cherry  Fairs"  and  help  the  poor  young 
widow  with  her  harvests. 

"I  was  only  a  boy  at  the  time,  but  was  big 
enough  and  strong  enough  to  do  the  work  of 
two  men.  In  those  German  districts  the  women 
work  in  the  fields  with  the  men,  and  we  al- 
ways had  as  much  fun  as  we  had  work. 
When  I  first  went  there  I  didn't  understand 
a  word  of  Pennsylvania  Dutch.  I  knew  more 


300  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

about  Indian  dialects,  but  by  the  end  of  the 
first  season  I  could  talk  it  freely,  as  well  as 
make  a  few  polite  remarks  in  Welsh.  I  had 
a  particularly  happy  time  during  the  last 
harvest  I  worked  at  before  I  went  to  the  war, 
but,  like  many  happy  times,  it  ended  in  dis- 
aster. 

"We  were  particularly  anxious  to  get  the 
wheat  into  the  barn  in  safety,  as  it  was  a 
fine  crop  and  the  old  people  were  predicting 
a  heavy  rain.  The  sun  never  shone  brighter 
even  if  there  were  a  few  smoke-colored 
clouds  hanging  over  the  mountains.  Every- 
one in  the  neighborhood  volunteered  to  help 
us  out,  and  we  had  a  small  army  working  in 
the  field  before  the  day  was  done.  Among 
the  generous  workers  were  the  Kieffer  fam- 
ily, consisting  of  father,  mother,  grand- 
mother, eight  children  and  a  visitor  from 
Reading,  -Mary  Dilabar. 

"Mary  was  as  pretty  as  a  picture;  I  can 
see  her  yet  with  her  blue  dress  and  a  red 
handkerchief  tied  around  her  head.  She 
wasn't  much  of  a  worker,  and  spent  most  of 
the  time  stroking  the  horses'  noses,  while  the 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  301 

rest  of  us  tossed  the  sheaves.  I  was  so  busy 
watching  her  that  I  accidentally  ran  my 
pitchfork  into  one  of  old  Kieffer's  horses, 
which  made  the  team  run  away. 

"They  had  gone  a  mile  before  they  hit  a 
big  chestnut  stump  and  overturned  the 
wagon.  One  horse  broke  loose  and  started 
for  the  mountains  on  a  gallop.  We  forgot 
the  harvest  and  the  approaching  storm,  and 
our  battalion  of  men,  women  and  children 
followed  the  clumsy  Conestoga  mare  as  if  she 
were  a  Jack  o'Lantern.  When  we  were  all 
in  the  forest  the  storm  broke  with  all  its 
fury  and  all  hands  separated  to  crouch  under 
rocks,  logs,  or  overhanging  boughs  to  lessen 
the  inevitable  drenching. 

"I  became  separated  from  the  party  and 
while  looking  for  a  suitable  retreat  ran  across 
Mary  Dilabar  seated  under  an  old  white  oak. 
I  warned  her  that  oaks  were  often  struck  by 
lightning,  so  she  moved  with  me  across  the 
gully  to  a  beech  tree,  which  the  Indians  say 
is  never  touched  by  the  Storm  God.  With  the 
evening  there  was  no  appreciable  let-up  of 
the  rain,  and  it  looked  as  if  we  would  have 


302  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

to  spend  the  night  under  the  sheltering 
beech. 

"I  liked  nothing  better,  and  our  conversa- 
tion, which  began  with  joking  about  my  care- 
lessness in  causing  the  runaway,  drifted  into 
more  serious  topics,  and  by  the  time  the 
pretty  young  girl  fell  asleep  in  my  arms,  we 
had  about  agreed  to  get  married.  The  morn- 
ing dawned  clear,  and  breakfastless  we  re- 
joined the  harvesters  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. They  were  gathering  the  sheaves 
that  had  spilled  from  the  wagon  as  it 
careened  through  the  pastures  during  the 
runaway  and  some  were  hunting  for  pieces 
of  harness  which  seemed  to  be  irretrievably 
lost. 

"Mary  and  I  made  a  most  congenial  couple, 
and  my  sister,  and  the  Kieffer  family  ap- 
proved of  our  promised  marriage.  I  accom- 
panied her  to  Reading  when  her  visit  was 
completed,  to  meet  her  parents  who  were  old 
French  people.  They  did  not  greet  us  very 
cordially.  They  asked  my  age  and  I  told 
them  I  was  nineteen,  which  was  a  year  older 
than  I  really  was,  and  they  shook  their  heads 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  303 

and  retired  into  a  back  room  for  deliberation. 

"Mary  and  I,  still  sitting  on  the  bench  on 
the  front  steps,  could  hear  them  through  the 
open  door  conversing  in  their  strange  jargon. 
After  half  an  hour  they  rejoined  us,  only 
to  say  they  had  decided  that  a  girl  of  fifteen 
was  too  young  to  be  married,  but  if  I  would 
wait  a  year,  everything  would  be  all  right. 
They  also  gave  me  permission  to  correspond 
with  my  sweetheart,  shaking  my  hands 
warmly  as  if  they  approved  of  my  future 
connection  with  their  family.  They  told 
Mary  it  was  time  to  come  indoors,  and  shut 
the  door  on  me  without  inviting  me  in. 

"The  war  was  at  its  height,  and  drums 
were  beating  all  over  Reading  to  excite  young 
men  to  the  pitch  of  enlistment.  I  wasn't 
very  enthusiastic  for  several  days,  I  was  too 
perplexed  about  the  way  in  which  my  inter- 
view with  Mary's  parents  had  ended.  A  com- 
pany of  riflemen  had  been  formed  and  were 
giving  exhibitions  of  marksmanship  on  the 
common.  Great  crowds  had  collected,  and 
aspirants  for  membership  in  the  body,  which 
seemed  very  popular,  were  trying  to  equal 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


the  unerring  sight  of  those  already  accepted. 
I  pushed  my  way  through  the  throng,  and 
borrowed  a  rifle. 

"It  did  not  take  long  for  me  to  demonstrate 
my  superiority  to  every  man  present,  which 
resulted  in  Captain  Nagle  speaking  to  me 
pleasantly  and  inviting  me  to  enlist.  I  had 
been  feeling  downcast  all  day,  so  in  a  spirit 
of  recklessness  I  signed  my  name  to  the  com- 
pany roll.  You  know  the  rest  of  the  military 
story,  as  we  were  pretty  close  friends  when 
we  served  together  under  Morgan.  But  to 
get  back  to  the  ghost  story.  It  was  several 
days  before  I  was  able  to  obtain  permission 
to  leave  the  camp  to  make  my  good-bye  call 
on  Mary. 

"When  I  reached  her  house  I  swung  the 
heavy  brass  knocker  with  a  confident  air;  I 
was  in  uniform,  and  felt  the  entire  world 
must  bend  before  me.  Mary's  mother  opened 
the  door,  and  looked  at  me  in  surprise.  I 
asked  to  see  the  girl,  but  she  looked  more  sur- 
prised than  ever.  'Did  not  you  get  that  note 
she  sent  you  out  to  camp  Tuesday  morning?' 
When  I  told  her  I  had  not,  she  said  she 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  305 

thought  that  was  very  queer.  'Mary,'  she 
stated,  'had  married  Mr.  Jacobs,  an  old  family 
friend,  three  days  before,  and  had  sent  me 
a  note  announcing  the  glad  tidings.'  I  smiled 
broadly  and  strode  away. 

"My  heart  was  sad,  but  I  was  delighted 
that  I  had  enlisted,  for  now  I  wouldn't  have 
to  return  to  Steitzetown  a  jilted  man;  the 
public  might  think  I  was  the  one  who  did 
the  jilting.  After  the  war  I  returned  to  my 
early  home  in  Northumberland  county,  as 
my  sister  was  living  there.  She  gave  up  her 
farm  after  I  deserted  her  to  go  to  the  front. 

"Years  passed  and  all  my  immediate- 
family  died,  leaving  me  to  lead  a  hermit's 
life  by  the  shores  of  the  Susquehanna.  The 
first  Christmas  eve  that  I  was  alone  awoke 
many  unhappy  recollections.  'Why  couldn't 
I  have  had  a  nice  wife  and  children  like  all 
the  other  friends  of  my  youth?'  seemed  to  be 
my  sole  complaint.  I  tried  to  reason  with 
myself  that  even  if  Mary  had  married  some- 
one else,  there  were  other  girls  I  might  have 
gotten ;  but  then  I  would  silence  that  thought 


306  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

with  'I  didn't  want  them  because  I  didn't 
care  for  them.' 

"I  took  down  the  miniature  and  by  the 
flickering  firelight  tried  to  decipher  the  fea- 
tures of  my  beloved.  A  traveling  portrait 
painter  had  stopped  with  me  over  night,  and 
I  induced  him  to  stay  awhile  and  paint  the 
likeness  from  my  description.  Her  eyes  were 
blue,  and  her  hair  chestnut  brown,  but  I 
think  he  failed  with  her  expression,  which 
was  beyond  any  artist. 

"He  said  he  ought  to  have  a  bit  of  ivory, 
but  finally  accepted  a  piece  of  a  buffalo's 
jaw-bone,  which  I  polished  for  the  purpose. 
The  gold  case  came  from  Philadelphia.  While 
I  was  gazing  intently  at  the  little  picture  I 
felt  a  moistness  before  my  eyes.  It  was  like 
the  impress  of  two  soft  hands,  but  they  were 
so  damp  and  clammy!  Then  I  heard  some- 
one speak  my  name  in  tones  distinct  but  low. 
It  was  repeated  several  times,  and  at  last 
I  conquered  my  stupidity  and  recognized  the 
rather  peculiar  intonation  of  Mary's  voice. 

"I  could  restrain  myself  no  longer,  and 
called  out,  'Is  that  you,  Mary?'  The  voice  re- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  307 

plied,  'It  surely  is ;  but  don't  look  around  for 
heaven's  sake!  I  felt  sorry  for  you  all  alone 
on  Christmas  eve,  and  have  come  to  pay  you 
a  visit.  I  was  very  young  when  we  agreed 
to  marry,  but  it  was  weak  and  mean  in  me 
to  allow  my  parents  to  influence  me  away 
from  you  and  to  marry  another.  My  hus- 
band was  twenty  years  older,  set  in  his  ways, 
selfish,  and  disagreeable.  I  led  a  miserable 
life  with  him  for  twenty  years  until  he  was 
drowned  in  the  canal  by  one  of  his  boatmen. 
I  should  have  sent  for  you  then,  but  I  didn't 
know  where  you  were,  and  I  was  afraid  you 
had  ceased  to  care  for  me.  Forgive  me  now, 
and  we  will  atone  for  the  past;  you  are  the 
only  man  I  ever  loved ;  I  knew  that  from  the 
start.' 

"The  thrill  caused  by  her  voice  and  the 
pressure  of  those  fingers  on  my  eyes  was 
too  much  for  me ;  I  interrupted  her  and  said 
I  must  see  her.  In  tones  of  abject  terror 
she  cried,  'Don't,  don't,  please/  but  it  was  too 
late.  I  turned  like  a  flash  only  to  behold  the 
fragile  outlines  of  my  sweetheart  melting 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


and  mingling  with  the  shadows  and  hang- 
ings of  the  room. 

"Outside  the  wind  sobbed  piteously  for 
the  remainder  of  the  night.  For  many  nights 
after  that  I  sat  by  the  fire,  hoping  for 
Mary's  return.  She  never  came,  and  I  be- 
came convinced  that  her  visit  was  merely 
a  dream,  signifying  she  wanted  me  to  go  to 
see  her  in  Reading.  I  started  in  my  canoe, 
and  at  Sunbury  boarded  a  stage  which  took 
me  there  by  the  short  route  across  the  moun- 
tains. At  the  Farmers'  Hotel  I  asked  where 
Mrs.  Mary  Jacobs  lived.  The  landlord  looked 
at  me  curiously,  and  said,  'She  passed  away 
on  Christmas  eve  last,  and  is  buried  in  the 
Lutheran  cemetery.' 

"I  went  to  the  graveyard  standing  with 
bowed  head  before  the  muddy  mound.  On 
the  way  back  the  whole  thing  dawned  on  me. 
Mary's  spirit  had  appeared  to  me  just  at  the 
instant  of  her  death;  it  might  have  visited 
me  often,  only  I  shocked  it  into  emptiness 
by  demanding  to  see  it  before  it  had  become 
in  harmony  with  the  new  environment.  That 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  309 

was  my  overwhelming  sorrow ;  I  feared  I  had 
destroyed  her  soul.  But  even  if  it  is  gone 
as  a  distinct  personality,  it  will  live  as  long 
as  I  do,  enshrined  in  mine." 


XXI. 

THE  LAST  DRIVE 


ARKNESS  was  rapidly  fall- 
ing as  Bill  and  I  emerged 
from  the  path  down  Otter 
Run  into  the  valley  of  Little 
Pine  Creek.  English  Town 
was  still  five  miles  distant 
and  we  would  have  to 
quicken  our  pace  if  we 
wanted  to  reach  there  be- 
fore John  Bowman  shut  up  his  boarding 
place  for  the  night.  The  road  was  deep  with 
sand,  and  we  could  not  make  progress  there, 
so  we  walked  along  the  banks  on  either  side, 
which  had  been  pastured  smooth  by  sheep 
and  cattle. 

In  places  the  valley  is  quite  wide,  and  there 
are  some  very  fertile  fields,  but  all  of  it,  clear 
to  the  foot  of  the  mountains,  has  been  under 
water  during  the  great  floods,  especially 
those  of  1889  and  1894.  On  one  of  the  level 
patches,  where  the  top  soil  had  been  washed 

310 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  311 

away,  but  was  growing  up  with  staghorn 
sumacs  and  wild  apple  trees,  a  number  of 
brown  and  white  and  black  and  white  steers 
were  pasturing.  The  stars  were  coming  out 
and  gave  the  sky  above  the  dark  mountains 
a  tone  of  luminous  gray. 

Against  the  sable  mountains  the  white 
spots  on  the  bodies  of  the  cattle,  and  the 
clusters  of  wild  carrots  or  "Queen  Anne's 
Lace,"  which  grew  in  profusion  in  the  pas- 
ture, made  a  study  in  black  and  gray  that 
charmed  with  its  effective  simplicity.  Every- 
thing was  distinctly  outlined  yet  beautifully 
harmonized,  and  we  paused  to  look  at  what 
typified  to  us  a  lover's  meeting  between  Dusk 
and  Darkness.  There  was  a  telephone  pole 
lying  by  the  path  which  had  been  cut  to  make 
place  for  a  larger  one,  and  we  seated  our- 
selves on  it  absorbing  the  marvelous  noc- 
turne into  our  consciousness.  Silvery  gray 
sky,  sable  mountains,  immovable  cattle  of 
sable  and  white,  sable  clumps  of  foliage,  sable 
earth  bespangled  with  flowers  of  silvery  lace ! 

No  supper  nor  bed  at  English  Town  could 
tempt  us  to  leave  the  scene  until  darkness 


312  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

blurred  it  out.  Other  phases  of  light  and 
shadow,  other  night  views  might  affect  us 
in  the  future,  but  never  again  would  there  be 
one  like  this.  Nature  is  the  only  artist  who 
never  uses  the  same  theme  twice  alike. 

As  we  sat  there  with  these  and  many  other 
thoughts  ebbing  and  flowing,  we  noticed  the 
figure  of  a  slim  girl  emerge  from  the  back- 
ground of  gloom  further  up  the  road.  Though 
she  was  walking  fast,  her  head  was  bent  and 
dejected  and  she  was  whispering  to  herself. 
As  she  passed  us  she  did  not  raise  her  blue 
eyes,  but  the  silvery  tint  of  the  sky  reflected 
on  them  and  enabled  us  to  see  that  they  were 
staring  and  vacant,  the  eyes  of  a  demented 
person.  Withal  she  was  unusually  pretty; 
her  reddish-gold  hair  had  been  blown  by  the 
night  winds  about  her  face,  which  was  deli- 
cately formed.  She  had  a  well-moulded  nose 
and  her  lips  had  that  exquisite  fullness  which 
only  comes  to  women  after  weeping. 

Bill  and  I  looked  after  her  until  she  melted 
into  the  gloom  ahead ;  she  was  a  rare  butter- 
fly with  tattered  wings  flitting  across  a  fad- 
ing picture.  We  both  agreed  there  was  some- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  313 

thing  uncanny  about  the  girl,  and  it  stopped 
our  reveries  and  revived  our  zeal  to  reach 
John  Bowman's  boarding  place.  We  knew 
all  the  gossips  of  the  neighborhood  congre- 
gated there  in  the  evenings  ever  since  the 
Riverside  Hotel  had  burned  down.  But  we 
still  had  over  two  miles  before  us,  and  the 
night  became  intensely  black. 

The  night  winds  blew  in  fitful  gusts  from 
the  high  peaks,  raced  along  the  bed  of  the 
creek,  and  chased  one  another  back  again 
to  the  summits  via  the  rocky  gullies.  At 
length  we  approached  the  outskirts  of  the 
settlement,  the  long  rows  of  deserted  black 
houses,  with  windows  boarded  and  the  front 
gates  falling  in,  the  dismantled  tannery  with 
the  tin  roofs  gone,  and  gaping  holes  in  its 
brick  walls  made  to  remove  the  vats  and 
machinery. 

Across  the  suspension  bridge  glimmered 
two  lights;  John  Bowman's  boarding  place 
was  still  awake.  The  wind  was  sighing  in 
the  cables,  and  rattling  the  bolts  and  beams 
as  we  crossed  the  bridge  high  above  the 
creek,  which  ran,  a  narrow  gray  rivulet  in 


314  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

the  center  of  the  wide  bed  of  stones  and  peb- 
bles that  it  once  covered  when  it  raced 
towards  the  parent  stream  in  the  days  of  its 
glory.  Now,  like  an  old  man  who  occasion- 
ally feels  the  fire  of  youth  return,  the  floods 
show  to  very  young  people  and  to  strangers 
what  it  used  to  be.  We  could  see  several 
persons  through  the  windows  of  the  board- 
ing house,  so  opened  the  door  and  went  in. 

John  Bowman  and  his  wife  greeted  us 
cordially,  and  Mrs.  Bowman  vouchsafed  a 
piece  of  information  she  knew  would  interest 
us.  Byron  Endsley  was  back  from  Oregon. 
Byron  had  had  an  adventurous  career  as 
bugler  of  the  troop  which  arrived  too  late 
to  save  General  Custer  at  the  Battle  of  the 
Little  Big  Horn ;  as  a  spectator  of  the  murder 
of  "Wild  Bill"  Hickok  at  Deadwood;  and 
later  as  a  seeker  of  gold  in  the  Klondike. 

When  the  tannery  closed  he  bid  a  "final" 
farewell  to  English  Town,  but  as  usual  the 
gloomy  valley  of  Little  Pine  Creek  had  drawn 
him  back  again.  But  here  was  Byron  now.  We 
shook  hands,  and  he  wanted  to  tell  us  right 
off  about  the  "silver  tips"  he  had  killed  in  the 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  315 

Coast  Range.  But  we  were  more  anxious 
for  another  story,  to  learn  the  identity  of 
the  demented  beauty  who  had  stalked  so 
spectre-like  along  the  sandy  road. 

The  genial  landlord  and  his  wife  sat  with 
us  while  we  ate  our  suppers  in  the  cozy  little 
lamp-lit  dining  room.  I  asked  old  Bowman 
to  tell  me  all  about  the  wandering  girl,  and 
he  replied  that  he  was  sorry  to  say  she  was 
his  favorite  niece,  Adele  Armeson.  "She  be- 
came queer  after  the  last  drive  three  years 
ago,  and  if  it  wasn't  we  were  always  hoping 
she'd  get  all  right,  she'd  be  in  Danville  long 
ago.  Hard  luck  always  seems  to  follow  the 
good  and  the  deserving,  and  she  was  cer- 
tainly both.  I  never  saw  a  girl  as  pretty  or 
as  sweet  as  she,  except  perhaps  my  wife."  At 
this  Mrs.  Bowman  smiled  broadly. 

"She  was  very  much  in  love  with  young 
Grant  Valentine  from  up  in  the  Blockhouse 
country,  and  her  affection  was  fully  recipro- 
cated. The  families  had  been  friends  for 
years,  and  he  always  visited  Adele's  people 
for  a  few  days  when  he  came  this  way  to 
work  on  the  drives  in  the  spring  and  fall. 


316  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

"As  a  small  boy  I  saw  the  first  drive  out  of 
the  creek.  I  think  it  was  in  1861 ;  they  only 
drove  the  biggest  and  choicest  kind  of  white 
pine  logs,  and  always  left  the  bark  on.  The 
last  drive  was  composed  of  hemlock  culls,  and 
it  made  us  all  sad  to  feel  that  the  logs 
would  never  run  'Little  Pine'  again.  A  good 
part  of  the  last  drive  had  to  be  splashed  out 
of  Stony  Run,  half  a  mile  below  here.  For 
that  purpose  they  built  a  New  England 
splash-dam  near  the  head  of  the  stream, 
which  was  five  miles  from  where  it  empties 
into  'Little  Pine/ 

"Young  Valentine,  who  was  only  twenty- 
four,  was  keenly  excited  about  the  drive,  as 
it  would  take  all.  the  skill  and  agility  of  the 
drivers  to  get  the  logs  quickly  over  the  high 
sharp  rocks  in  the  bed  of  the  stream,  and 
avoid  a  jam.  Many  old  watermen  had  said  it 
couldn't  be  done.  He  talked  so  much  about  it 
and  the  part  he  was  going  to  play  that  Adele 
was  anxious  to  watch  the  drive  come  out  of 
the  run.  She  knitted  him  a  red  woolen  vest 
specially  for  the  occasion.  I  happened  to 
be  at  her  home  that  morning,  so  asked  her 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  317 

to  come  with  me  in  my  buggy  and  see  the 
frolic.  We  stopped  the  rig  on  the  bridge 
where  the  Waterville  road  crosses  'Stony' 
near  its  confluence  with  'Little  Pine/  She 
said  Grant  had  told  her  his  drive  would  reach 
the  bridge,  barring  accidents,  about  noon, 
which  gave  us  a  couple  of  hours  to  wait. 

"But  there  was  lots  to  see,  the  drives  out 
of  Little  Blockhouse,  Zimmerman's  and  Bear, 
were  floating  down  the  big  stream  with  the 
crews  wading  waist  deep  in  water  or  leaping 
from  log  to  log,  to  keep  every  stick  headed 
for  its  destination  in  Williamsport.  Noon 
came  and  went,  but  the  drive  out  of  Stony 
Run  had  not  appeared.  The  last  log  in  the 
other  drives  had  gone  out  of  sight  around  the 
bend,  the  sun  was  obscured  and  the  weather 
more  like  winter  than  early  spring. 

"By  two  o'clock  Adele  was  getting  cold, 
but  she  would  not  leave  her  post.  I  felt  sorry 
for  her,  so  got  out  of  the  rig  telling  her  I 
would  walk  up  the  run  a  ways,  and  try  and 
learn  the  cause  of  the  delay.  After  I  had 
gone  a  mile  I  heard  shouting  and  swearing 
in  the  distance,  and  I  at  once  sized  it  up  that 


318  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

the  logs  had  jammed.  I  hurried  along  the 
path  until  I  came  in  sight  of  the  giant  pile 
of  logs  which  resembled  pictures  of  the 
wooden  horse  drawn  up  before  the  walls  of 
Troy. 

"The  jam  was  fifty  feet  high,  and  on  top 
of  it  the  boys,  including  Valentine,  were 
working  with  cant  hooks  and  axes  to  start 
it  in  motion.  On  a  high  rock  near  the  bank 
stood  the  boss,  Milt.  Bradley,  red  in  the  face 
and  angry,  cursing  and  consigning  everyone 
to  perdition.  I  was  not  a  hundred  feet  from 
him  when  one  of  the  lads  gave  a  flying  leap 
for  shore  crying,  'The  king  pin's  out;  she's 
moving,  boys,  she's  moving.'  The  others,  all 
but  Valentine,  projected  themselves  through 
the  air,  and  fell  panting  and  bruised  but  safe. 
In  some  way  the  boy's  foot  had  got  caught 
between  two  logs,  and  when  like  the  turning 
of  a  rebellious  water-wheel,  the  vast  bunch 
of  saw-logs  shot  out  from  their  tangle,  he 
was  carried  down  under  them.  Urged  on  by 
their  own  momentum  and  the  accumulation 
of  water  behind  they  swept  down,  crushing 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  319 

the  unhappy  fellow  beneath  them  like  a  rock 
in  a  hopper. 

"In  another  hundred  yards  they  piled  up 
a  second  time,  making  even  a  worse  mess  of 
it.  Bradley  was  livid  with  rage,  and  shouted 
to  the  drivers  who  were  all  on  their  feet  by 
this  time,  to  climb  in  and  break  the  jam  at 
once.  I  grabbed  him  by  the  arm  and  shouted, 
'My  Heavens,  man,  you  can't  let  that  drive 
go  on  with  that  boy's  body  underneath  it; 
his  sweetheart's  waiting  on  the  bridge  to  see 
the  logs  come  through.'  He  turned  on  me 
with  a  torrent  of  blasphemy  and  struck  me  in 
the  stomach  with  his  fist,  but  even  if  I  am 
over  50,  I  was  a  match  for  the  big  bruiser. 

"As  he  aimed  one  of  his  blows  at  me,  he 
slipped  on  the  rock,  falling  heavily.  I  seized 
the  opportunity  to  call  to  the  drivers  to  let 
the  jam  stand,  and  as  among  them  were  'bud- 
dies' of  poor  Valentine's,  they  threw  down 
their  cant-hooks,  saying  they  were  done  for 
the  day.  When  Bradley  recovered  himself, 
he  rushed  at  me,  but  I  downed  him  with  an 
uppercut,  and  after  that  he  was  as  meek  as 
a  lamb.  Meanwhile,  the  water  was  surging 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


into  a  flood  behind  the  jam,  and  nature  broke 
it,  carrying  everything  before  like  an  ava- 
lanche. I  tried  to  keep  up  with  the  seething 
mass  of  logs  and  water,  but  was  soon  dis- 
tanced. Some  of  the  boys,  however,  kept 
pretty  well  abreast  of  it,  as  it  was  not  all 
clear  sailing,  and  the  jagged  rocks  threat- 
ened to  stop  its  advance  again  and  again. 

"Adele  waiting  on  the  bridge,  heard  the 
cracking,  and  the  thumping,  and  the  water's 
roar,  betokening  the  approach  of  the  drive. 
Into  view  it  came,  the  logs  overleaping  one 
another  and  turning  somersaults  in  the  froth- 
ing current,  or  forcing  those  nearest  the 
shore  high  and  dry  on  the  banks.  Bringing 
up  the  rear  were  the  drivers,  with  their 
green,  blue  and  gray  shirts,  but  seemingly  not 
raising  a  hand  when  a  whole  shoal  of  logs 
would  slide  on  land.  Grant  Valentine,  with 
his  red  vest,  was  not  among  them.  Why  was 
he  staying  behind  when  the  others  were 
shirking  so  shamefully? 

"In  the  middle  of  the  tumbling  mass  was 
a  sixteen  foot  log,  ponderous  as  a  floating 
obelisk.  She  had  to  notice  it,  the  size  was  so 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  321 

much  greater  than  the  rest.  She  watched  it 
come  near,  until  just  as  it  swept  beneath  the 
bridge  she  saw  a  piece  of  red  material  stick- 
ing to  the  butt  end.  'My  lover  has  been 
killed,'  she  screamed  wildly  to  the  drivers 
who  were  now  standing  below  her  on  the 
banks.  Not  a  man  answered  but  their  frank 
honest  faces  told  the  story.  She  fell  in  a 
faint  on  the  bottom  of  the  rig,  but  strong 
arms  a-plenty  were  there  in  a  moment  to 
raise  and  comfort  her.  Limp  and  helpless  I 
drove  her  to  her  home  in  the  buggy. 

"For  ten  days  we  doubted  if  she  would  re- 
cover, as  she  raved  until  she  became  insen- 
sible from  exhaustion.  She  got  well  physi- 
cally, but  she  had  left  her  spirit  go  down  the 
creek  with  the  crushed  and  mangled  rem- 
nants of  her  sweetheart.  Every  clear  day  in 
spring  and  summer  she  walks  to  the  bridge, 
and  sits  there  knitting  until  supper  time.  She 
never  notices  strangers,  and  they  treat  her 
respectfully,  as  any  one  can  see  by  her  ex- 
pression that  there's  something  wanting. 
When  we  who  know  her  try  to  reason  with 


322  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

her  a  little  she  will  say,  'The  last  drive  has 
gone,  and  Grant  will  soon  meet  me  here,  and 
we  will  go  away  together.'  " 


XXII. 
HISTORY  OF  TAMARACK  SWAMP 


N  1850,  James  Hennessy,  a 
farmer,  while  grubbing-  out 
stumps  in  a  garden  on  the 
edge  of  the  famous  Tama- 
rack Swamp  in  Clinton 
county,  was  surprised  to 
unearth  a  number  of  frag- 
ments of  horns  which 
greaty  resembled  the  ant- 
lers of  the  moose  and  caribou. 

Although  foreign  travellers  and  the  earli- 
est settlers  had  failed  to  record  the  presence 
of  these  animals  in  Northern  Pennsylvania, 
it  seemed  to  indicate  that,  judging  from  the 
condition  of  the  horns,  they  must  have  lived 
in  the  state  as  late  as  pre-Columbian  times. 
Fossil  horns  of  moose  and  caribou  have  been 
found  in  many  caves,  notably  those  at  Rieg- 
elsville  and  Stroudsburg,  but  they  gave  no 
encouragement  to  the  theory  that  any  existed 
here  since  the  days  of  remote  antiquity. 

323 


324  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

When  the  finding  of  the  horns  was  men- 
tioned to  one  of  the  old  Indians  from 
Nichols'  Run,  who  was  in  McElhattan  sell- 
ing medicinal  herbs,  he  smiled,  and  said  it 
recalled  a  story  of  how  moose  and  caribou, 
as  well  as  the  northern  trees  were  imported 
into  the  Tamarack  Swamp  by  a  powerful  In- 
dian Chieftain,  named  Ko-wat-go-chee  or 
Wild  Cat.  He  was  the  ruler  of  the  Red  Men 
in  the  upper  valley  of  the  Otzinachson,  be- 
ing known  far  and  wide  for  his  'historical 
knowledge,  fine  character  and  powers  as  an 
orator. 

He  was  often  asked  to  be  the  guest  of 
honor  at  Indian  ceremonials  and  anniver- 
saries in  distant  parts  of  the  country,  and  not 
infrequently  accepted,  delivering  interesting 
addresses  on  the  history  and  destiny  of  his 
race.  Of  kingly  rank,  he  was  not  compelled 
to  secure  a  wife  upon  reaching  his  majority, 
but  postponed  this  happy  event,  from  year  to 
year,  saying  he  was  too  busy  preserving  the 
glorious  traditions  of  his  forefathers  to  think 
of  such  a  thing. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  325 

There  was  a  tradition  among  many  of  the 
tribes  in  New  York  state  that  the  "big 
water"  or  Atlantic  Ocean  once  overflowed  its 
banks,  causing  a  tremendous  flood.  The  In- 
dian people  had  received  advance  tidings  on 
the  subject  from  Gitchie  Manito,  the  Great 
Spirit,  which  enabled  them  to  save  them- 
selves and  their  chosen  animals  and  birds  by 
ascending  to  the  summit  of  Tahawus,  now 
Mt.  Marcy,  the  highest  peak  in  the  Adiron- 
dack Mountains,  the  only  point  not  sub- 
merged. All  their  human  enemies,  races  of 
gigantic  white  and  yellow  men  who  were 
constantly  at  war  with  them  and  the  huge, 
serpentine  sea  and  land  animals,  bat-winged 
and  griffin-clawed,  which  preyed  on  them, 
were  drowned. 

On  what  would  be,  to  modern  reckoners, 
the  four  thousandth  anniversary  of  their  de- 
liverance from  the  great  overflow,  the  Indi- 
ans from  far  and  wide  gathered  on  the  slopes 
of  the  big  mountain  to  hold  appropriate  ex- 
ercises of  thanksgiving  and  observance.  Ka- 
wat-go-chee  was  selected  to  deliver  the  his- 
torical oration. 


326  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

Apocryphal  as  may  be  the  flowery  speeches 
attributed  to  Logan,  Cornplant  and  Teedyus- 
cung,  the  Indian  race  was  fond  of  oratory, 
and  produced  a  number  of  speakers  who 
might  easily  have  impressed  an  assemblage 
of  white  men.  Throughout  the  long  journey 
from  the  Otzinachson  to  the  shadow  of  Taha- 
wus,  in  canoes,  or  during  dreary  tramps 
through  the  forest,  Ko-wat-go-chee,  the  ora- 
tor, was  rehearsing  his  address.  Nature 
seemed  to  stimulate  his  naturally  reflective 
and  beautifully  poised  intellect,  for  he  drew 
from  it  as  he  went  along  new  similes,  new 
symbols,  a  wider  viewpoint,  a  better  mastery 
of  his  language.  He  was  in  prime  condition 
mentally  and  physically  when  he  arrived  at 
his  destination,  where  he  was  welcomed  by  a 
committee  of  wise  men,  and  escorted  to  a 
lodge  house  built  of  white  or  canoe-birch  logs, 
to  be  his  private  residence  during  the  three 
weeks  the  ceremonies  were  to  last. 

Not  far  distant  from  the  lodge  were  the 
permanent  quarters  of  Chief  Pox-son-gay,  or 
Yesterday,  his  name  serving  as  a  reminder 
of  the  sacred  past,  which  was  now  to  be  re- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  327 

viewed  at  the  grand  ceremonial.  With  his 
family,  and  the  bravest  of  his  warriors,  he 
called  to  pay  his  respects  to  Ko-wat-go-chee, 
the  evening  of  his  arrival. 

In  his  party  was  his  youngest  daughter, 
Me-shon-nita,  or  To-Day,  a  maiden  of  such 
singular  beauty  that  many  believed  her  to  be 
a  spirit,  and  not  a  human  being.  To  the  sur- 
prise of  Pox-son-gay  and  his  followers,  the 
sedate  orator  devoted  a  great  deal  of  atten- 
tion to  the  young  girl;  so  much  so  that  the 
old  chief  inquired  if  he  had  ever  married. 
Ko-wat-go-chee  replied  in  the  negative,  evi- 
dently pleasing  his  visitors  immensely,  as 
there  was  a  rivalry  as  to  which  of  the  many 
tribes  gathered  in  the  neighborhood  could 
give  the  most  entertainment  to  the  distin- 
guished speaker. 

After  the  Green  Corn  Dance,  which 
marked  the  inauguration  of  the  ceremonies, 
came  the  night  of  the  grand  oration.  It 
took  place  from  a  bench,  or  level,  on  the  side 
of  Tahawus,  and  was  crowded  thick  with  In- 
dians of  every  size  and  description.  It  was 
held  on  the  hour  that  the  Great  Spirit  was 


328  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

supposed  to  have  warned  his  favored  people 
of  the  coming  deluge.  Bonfires  and  torches 
innumerable  lit  up  the  meeting-ground,  from 
which  all  the  timber  and  underbrush  had 
been  previously  burned. 

Ko-wat-go-chee,  on  a  rostrum,  decked  with 
laurel  leaves,  and  surrounded  by  a  hundred 
wise  men,  outdid  himself  with  his  speech.  It 
was  the  most  sublime  effort  of  his  life,  and 
the  most  eminently  successful.  The  vast 
audience  was  held  spellbound  until  midnight. 
When  he  ceased  there  were  insistent  cries 
that  he  go  on.  While  naturally  adapted  to 
an  affair  of  this  kind,  his  real  inspiration 
and  triumph  came  from  the  presence  of  Me- 
shon-nita,  in  the  throng  below  him.  He  had 
looked  at  her  before  he  began  to  speak,  and 
an  intelligence  other  than  his  own  seemed 
to  take  possession  of  him.  Cheers,  shouts 
of  "Joh-hoh,"  the  Indian  war-cry,  and 
felicitations  of  all  kinds  were  heaped  upon 
him,  and  for  the  remainder  of  the  cere- 
monies he  was  the  central  and  most  sought 
after  figure.  Despite  all  the  attentions,  he 
managed  to  see  a  great  deal  of  Me-shon-nita, 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  329 

and  when  it  was  time  to  return  to  his  do- 
main in  the  Otzinachson,  he  respectfully 
asked  her  father  to  give  him  the  girl's  hand 
in  marriage. 

The  old  chief  was  highly  flattered,  and 
answered  "yes"  with  alacrity.  Me-shon-nita 
seemed  equally  pleased,  so  the  two  were  mar- 
ried with  a  fresh  display  of  pomp  and  cere- 
mony. For  the  purpose  of  the  long  journey 
Ko-wat-go-chee  had  a  litter  made  of  oak 
wood,  curiously  carved  and  colored.  In  this 
the  beautiful  bride  rested,  being  carried  by 
four  stalwart  bearers.  Ko-wat-go-chee  led 
the  way,  and  the  rear  of  the  procession  was 
brought  up  by  his  half  a  hundred  henchmen. 

At  first  Me-shon-nita  was  amused  by  the 
change  of  scenery  and  foliage.  She  ex- 
pressed no  regrets  at  the  disappearance  of 
the  cone  of  Tahawus  from  the  horizon,  or 
the  gradual  lessening  of  the  spruces  and  firs 
from  the  make-up  of  the  forest.  She  spoke 
enthusiastically  of  the  broad  plateau  with 
its  populous  village  of  compactly  built  houses, 
each  with  its  purling  spring,  which  was  to  be 
her  new  home.  Ko-wat-go-chee  was  very 


330  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

happy  for  a  time,  until  his  lover's  blindness 
had  subsided  enough  to  show  him  that  his 
bride  was  not  as  light-hearted  as  might  be. 
At  first  she  denied  that  everything  was  not 
well  with  her,  but  at  length  she  confessed  to 
homesickness.  She  missed  the  spruces  and 
balsams  of  the  North,  the  looming  vastness 
of  Tahawus  against  the  sky  line. 

Ko-kat-go-chee  was  as  rich  as  he  was  re- 
sourceful and  soothed  her  by  saying  he 
would  turn  her  new  home  into  a  northern 
park,  all  but  the  shadow  of  Tahawus.  While 
one-half  of  his  retainers  set  to  work  grubbing 
out  the  trees  on  a  large  area  at  the  northern 
edge  of  the  village,  the  other  half  were  dig- 
ging trenches  to  carry  the  water  from  the 
myriad  springs  into  the  newly  cleared 
ground.  As  soon  as  the  work  was  completed, 
every  man  and  boy  in  the  village,  except  a 
dozen  armed  guards,  started  in  single  file 
for  the  North.  It  was  months  before  they 
returned,  but  when  they  hove  in  sight,  Me- 
shon-nita  clapped  her  hands  for  joy. 

Each  Indian  carried  two  northern  trees  of 
respectable  size.  There  were  Tamaracks, 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  331 

White  Spruces,  Black  Spruces,  Balsam  Firs, 
a  few  Cedars,  arbor  vitaes  and  junipers,  and 
these  were  planted  in  the  soft,  moist  soil  of 
the  clearing.  When  all  were  in  position,  save 
for  the  absence  of  Tahawus  on  the  sky  line, 
it  was  like  a  forest  in  the  North,  the  native 
pines  and  hemlocks  which  formed  the  na- 
tural background,  adding  rather  than  de- 
tracting from  the  scene. 

For  a  time  Me-shon-nita  was  appeased, 
and  spent  much  of  her  time  walking  among 
the  young  conifers,  and  stroking  their 
smooth,  dark  needles.  In  the  lodge-house  at 
night  she  was  loving  and  companionable  with 
her  husband,  who  imagined  the  ghost  which 
had  threatened  his  happiness  had  been  laid. 
But  it  was  not  to  last.  One  evening  Me-shon- 
nita  was  glum  and  uncommunicative.  The 
trees  were  thriving,  so  the  solicitous  husband 
could  not  fathom  the  cause.  He  coaxed  and 
pleaded  until  midnight,  when  she  relaxed  and 
told  him  she  missed  the  animals  of  the  North. 

"You  had  the  pines  and  hemlocks  here,  but 
I  longed  for  the  spruces  and  firs;  you  have 


332  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

elk  and  deer  here,  but  I  miss  the  moose  and 
caribou." 

"Worry  no  longer,  my  beloved,"  replied 
Ko-wat-go-chee,  "the  northern  animals  shall 
be  here."  The  next  morning  an  army  of  men 
started  work  on  a  stockade  to  completely  en- 
close the  park. 

This  done,  every  man  and  boy,  save  for  the 
dozen  personal  retainers,  started  single  file 
for  the  North.  They  were  gone  even  longer 
than  when  they  went  for  the  trees,  but  they 
returned,  each  leading  or  carrying  a  young 
moose  or  caribou.  It  was  a  pretty  sight  to 
see  the  little  creatures  scampering  among  the 
spruces  and  firs ;  it  was  like  a  northern  forest 
scene  in  miniature.  The  happiness  of  Me- 
shon-nita  was  unbounded,  and  her  husband 
felt  that  there  would  be  no  further  com- 
plaints. 

Again  he  was  mistaken,  for  though  the 
young  animals  grew  and  became  livelier  each 
day,  a  cloud  had  obscured  the  smile  of  Me- 
shon-nita.  This  time  it  took  weeks  to  learn 
the  longing  which  obsessed  her.  Finally  she 
admitted  she  wanted  to  see  her  family,  the 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  333 

whole  tribe,  in  fact,  with  whom  she  had  been 
reared. 

"They  shall  all  come  here  on  a  visit,"  said 
the  complaisant  Ko-wat-go-chee.  Immedi- 
ately every  man  and  boy  in  the  village  was 
headed  for  the  North  again.  The  unhappy 
Me-shon-nita  watched  for  their  return  with 
more  eagerness  than  in  the  past.  Perhaps 
that  was  why  they  seemed  to  be  longer  ab- 
sent than  on  the  two  previous  trips. 

When  they  did  return  Me-shon-nita  ran 
out  to  greet  them,  singing  and  clapping  her 
hands.  Heading  the  procession  came  litters 
like  the  one  in  which  she  had  travelled  from 
the  North,  supported  by  sturdy  bearers  con- 
taining all  the  members  of  her  family.  Be- 
hind them  came  the  remainder  of  the  tribe, 
and  their  dogs,  escorted  by  her  husband's 
warriors,  who  obliged  the  Indian  mothers  by 
carrying  their  papooses,  blankets  and  uten- 
sils. Every  Indian  came  as  a  privileged 
guest,  and  the  trip  had  been  made  as  easy  as 
possible. 

Now  that  she  had  a  northern  forest,  north- 
ern animals,  her  entire  family  and  tribe,  she 


334  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

acted  as  if  she  was  the  happiest  young 
woman  in  existence.  She  impressed  on  her 
father  that  his  entire  party  were  to  remain 
an  indefinite  time,  which  suited  the  Indian 
temperament  exactly.  As  guests  they  were 
not  expected  to  furnish  food,  garments,  fuel 
or  houses;  all  were  provided  by  their  genial 
hosts. 

Besides,  they  were  told  the  winters  were 
not  so  long  nor  severe  as  in  the  North.  There 
was  no  reason  to  return  home  for  a  while ;  it 
was  a  relief  to  escape  the  biting  winds  that 
swept  off  Tahawus.  But  after  the  newcom- 
ers had  established  themselves,  and  became 
part  and  parcel  of  Ko-wat-go-chee's  tribe,  or 
to  be  more  exact,  had  assimilated  it,  even  to 
the  extent  of  Pox-son-gay's  often  assuming 
authority  over  all,  a  shadow  drove  the  smile 
away  from  Me-shon-nita's  lips. 

Months  elapsed  before  her  distracted  hus- 
band learned  the  truth.  She  was  pining  for 
a  sight  of  Mt.  Tahawus.  It  was  the  dead  of 
winter,  and  much  as  he  would  have  loved  to 
please  her,  Ko-wat-go-chee  deemed  it  expedi- 
ent to  wait  until  spring  before  taking  her  on 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


a  visit  to  the  North.  Old  Pox-son-gay 
grumbled  when  he  heard  of  the  proposed 
trip,  fearing  perhaps  that  he  might  be  "in- 
vited" to  accompany  the  party.  "Never  had 
a  winter  seemed  so  long;"  that  was  the  bur- 
den of  Me-shon-nita's  complaint. 

Nothing  that  could  be  done  appeased  her; 
she  must  see  Tahawus,  and  see  it  soon.  She 
neither  ate  nor  slept,  and  was  quarrelsome 
and  irritable.  The  medicine  men  advised 
Ko-wat-go-chee  that  she  must  have  her  wish, 
else  she  would  surely  die.  There  was  noth- 
ing further  to  do  but  to  turn  over  the  reins 
of  government  to  Pox-son-gay,  and  Ko-wat- 
go-chee  started  for  the  North  with  his  in- 
satiable wife,  attended  by  a  few  faithful  re- 
tainers. They  had  gotten  almost  as  far  as 
the  southern  shore  of  Keuka  Lake,  in  what 
is  now  New  York  state,  when  a  blizzard  of 
unparalleled  severity  overtook  them.  By  dint 
of  hard  work  a  "lean-to"  of  boughs  was  con- 
structed under  some  hemlocks,  where  the 
travellers  sought  protection. 

Me-shon-nita  chafed  at  the  delay,  declar- 
ing that  her  bearers  were  big  enough  to 


336  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

march  through  the  drifts  unmindful  of  the 
tempest.  But  the  snow  was  so  swift  and  so 
blinding  that  Ko-wat-go-chee  declared  they 
must  wait.  The  first  night  Me-shon-nita  lay 
awake  listening  and  watching  for  the  storm 
to  stop.  It  didn't  stop,  but  apparently  grew 
worse. 

All  the  next  day  she  was  in  a  belligerent 
frame  of  mind,  and  abused  the  retainers  so 
roundly  that  they  crouched,  cowed  in  one 
corner  of  the  shelter.  Her  husband's  efforts 
at  soothing  her  were  unavailing,  and  he  was 
tired  out  when  night  set  in.  Everyone,  in- 
cluding apparently  Me-shon-nita,  fell  asleep 
early,  but  the  crafty  woman  was  only  feign- 
ing. When  all  was  still  she  got  up  and  peered 
out.  It  was  very  dark,  and  she  felt  the  sting 
of  the  snowflakes  on  her  face. 

Unmindful  of  the  gloom  and  drifts  she 
stepped  boldly  into  the  storm,  and  headed,  as 
instinct  guided  her,  to  the  North.  She  had 
travelled  several  miles,  sometimes  up  to  her 
neck  in  snow,  when  an  open  place  like  a  mam- 
moth clearing  spread  out  before  her.  Far  in 
the  distance  through  the  falling  snow,  in  the 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  337 

half-light  that  comes  before  dawn,  she  could 
discern  a  great  promontory  against  the  sky- 
line. 

"It's  Tahawus,  old  Tahawus,  that  I  love," 
she  shouted  with  hysterical  gratification. 
"Those  fools  hiding  under  the  trees  little 
thought  it  was  so  near." 

She  redoubled  her  efforts,  taking  a  tumble 
several  times  into  the  drifts  which  engulfed 
her  like  feather-quilts.  Out  on  the  open  place 
she  made  better  progress,  as  the  wind  had 
blown  the  surface  bare,  it  seemed  like  ice. 
Through  the  gray  light  she  could  note  the 
outline  of  the  promontory;  it  was  a  shade 
darker  than  the  snow-swept  sky. 

With  head  erect  she  was  pushing  on  when 
suddenly  one  foot  sank  beneath  her;  she  felt 
cold  water,  and  before  she  could  stop  her 
other  foot  had  slipped;  she  was  sinking  fast 
into  the  chilly  depths  of  the  lake.  Just  as 
she  disappeared  she  shrieked,  "I  die  in  sight 
of  old  Tahawus;  I  die  happy!" 

In  the  morning  Ko-wat-go-chee  and  his 
followers  discovered  her  absence,  and  tracked 
her  with  considerable  effort  through  the  for- 


338  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

est  to  the  edge  of  Keuka.  The  path,  now 
half  filled  with  fresh-fallen  snow,  led  out  on 
the  ice,  and  they  followed  it  for  a  mile  until 
they  came  upon  a  gaping  air  hole. 

There  was  no  path  beyond;  Me-shon-nita, 
the  eternally  unhappy,  had  fallen  in  and  been 
drowned.  The  stricken  husband  gazed 
dumbly  into  the  lead-colored  water  and  raised 
his  eyes.  Against  the  horizon  loomed  a  great 
cone-shaped  promontory. 

"It  looks  like  Tahawus,"  he  murmured, 
"but  even  in  death,  she  was  disappointed." 

The  ferocity  of  the  storm  made  it  impos- 
sible to  linger  any  further,  so  sadly  he  made 
his  way  back  to  the  "lean-to"  and  ultimately 
to  his  transplanted  Northern  Wilderness  on 
the  highlands  of  the  Otzinachson.  And  when 
he  died  years  later  they  buried  him  in  a 
corner  of  dry  ground  under  the  Tamaracks. 


XXIII. 
CORA  PEMBERTON'S  BIOGRAPHY 


HEN  the  train  emerges  from 
the  tunnel  through  Paddy's 
Mountain  on  the  way  to  Co- 
burn,  far  up  in  the  first  ra- 
vine to  the  left  can  be  seen 
a  tiny  whitewashed  cabin. 
In  summer  when  the  leaves 
are  on  the  oaks  and  aspens 
it  is  entirely  hidden  by  the 
foliage,  but  in  winter  when  the  fallen  leaves 
and  the  few  lingering  leaves  on  the  oaks  color 
the  glen  a  rich  nut-brown,  the  little  structure 
stands  out  boldly. 

It  was  at  the  latter  time  of  the  year  that 
Cora  Pemberton  first  became  interested  in 
the  outside  world  as  symbolized  by  trains  and 
trainmen,  and  would  wave  to  them  every  time 
they  passed.  The  little  school  house  she  at- 
tended was  on  the  other  side  of  the  tunnel, 
it  was  easier  to  walk  through  it,  and  stand 
close  against  the  sooty  walls  when  freights 

339 


340  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

passed,  than  to  follow  the  winding  path 
across  the  mountain.  The  train  crews  got 
to  know  her,  a  small  figure  with  a  white 
apron  over  her  head,  to  shield  her  eyes  from 
sparks  and  cinders. 

It  took  some  pluck  to  go  through  the 
gloomy  tunnel  alone;  a  city  girl  might  think 
of  tramps,  but  their  existence  had  not 
dawned  on  Cora.  She  was  a  trifle  afraid  of 
snakes,  especially  after  she  killed  a  copper- 
head that  was  lying  lengthwise  under  the 
flange  of  one  of  the  rails.  From  the  begin- 
ning she  was  firmly  convinced  that  schooling 
was  an  unnecessary  ordeal,  bringing  her 
something  that  would  never  be  of  any  use  to 
her.  She  began  early  to  shirk  her  tasks, 
and  the  first  school  year  was  spent  princi- 
pally in  looking  at  Alvin  Dietrich,  a  stout, 
thickset  boy,  the  biggest  in  the  class,  who 
sat  directly  in  front  of  the  teacher.  There 
was  a  sort  of  sculptural  finish  to  his  features, 
that  was  probably  why  she  admired  him. 

Her  mother  was  a  daughter  of  old  Jonas 
Cleon,  whose  parents  were  Greek  refugees, 
settling  with  others  of  their  race  near  Salona, 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  341 

a  village  named  in  honor  of  the  Salonica  in 
Macedonia.  This  probably  gave  her  the  love 
of  beauty  which  found  its  only  outward  ex- 
pression in  an  admiration  for  handsome  men. 
Had  she  been  educated  she  would  have  found 
many  things  the  peers  of  handsome  men  in 
this  "world  beautiful." 

The  stout  boy  did  not  pay  any  attention 
to  Cora,  she  was  too  young,  but  his  indiffer- 
ence wrapped  the  roots  of  her  affection  for 
him  around  her  soul.  In  school  she  wrote 
again  and  again  on  her  slate,  only  to  rub  it 
out,  "I  will  marry  Alvin  Dietrich."  As  she 
grew  with  so  few  new  impressions  to  influ- 
ence her,  the  motto,  "I  will  marry  Alvin  Die- 
trich," became  her  ruling  passion.  But  may- 
be it  was  not  her  narrow  viewpoint,  but  some 
subtle  attractiveness  in  Alvin,  that  made  the 
spell  so  lasting.  By  the  time  he  was  seven- 
teen, to  use  the  local  vernacular,  he  had 
"fixed  out"  two  girls  causing  untold  misery 
to  their  parents  and  selves.  The  year  after 
Cora  had  ended  her  school  career,  he  took  a 
summer  job  with  a  man  named  Ilgen,  who 
had  a  small  farm  and  was  clearing  a  lot  of 


342  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

new  ground  not  far  from  the  school-house. 
Saturdey  nights  Alvin  walked  to  his  home, 
which  was  situated  three  miles  beyond  the 
tunnel.  Naturally,  as  he  walked  along  the 
ties  Cora  could  notice  him  from  where  she 
sat  on  the  front  steps  of  her  tiny  home  up  the 
hollow.  The  first  Saturday  he  passed  she 
heard  her  father  saying,  "Young  Dietrich  is 
helping  old  Ilgen  clear  his  new  ground,"  and 
that  raised  her  spirits  to  think  that  this  rare 
being  would  in  all  probabilities  pass  by  fre- 
quently during  the  summer. 

She  never  could  get  along  with  her  father 
and  mother,  and  her  opinion  of  her  brother 
and  sister  was  that  they  were  "too  slow." 
These  sentiments,  together  with  her  rapidly 
flowering  beauty,  made  her  parents  anxious 
to  repress  her  spirits.  The  next  Saturday 
night  she  discovered  that  the  cow  was  on  the 
track.  The  poor,  brow-beaten  animal  had 
often  committed  that  indiscretion  before,  but 
this  was  the  first  time  that  Cora  had  taken 
notice  of  it.  She  ran  down  the  ravine,  and 
along  the  track  in  the  direction  of  Coburn,  as 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  343 

if  trying  to  hear  the  "tunkle-tunkle-tum"  of 
the  cow-bell. 

For  a  girl  of  fifteen  she  was  unusually  well 
developed,  not  at  all  in  height  or  stoutness, 
but  in  the  general  contour  of  her  figure  and 
features.  Age,  not  size,  was  the  principle 
of  her  mother,  consequently  the  skirts  of  her 
simple  white  frock  were  many  inches  too 
short.  Her  face  had  unmistakable  Greek 
lines,  her  dark  brown  hair  was  parted  in 
the  middle  and  tied  with  a  large  bow  of  pale 
blue  ribbon  on  the  top  of  her  pretty  head. 
Her  eyes  were  round,  of  a  shade  strangely  in 
keeping  with  the  ribbon  in  her  hair,  while 
her  lips  had  that  pouting  mobility  that  van- 
ishes with  the  first  responsibilities. 

Wearing  black  stockings  and  dainty  ox- 
fords, she  tripped  along  the  cinder  path, 
slender  and  graceful,  for  all  the  world  like 
the  reincarnated  spirit  of  one  of  her  Greek 
ancestors.  But  if  the  cow  was  on  the  track 
she  must  have  been  a  fast  traveller.  After 
a  mile  of  walking  Cora  decided  the  search 
was  fruitless.  On  the  way  back  she  ex- 
pected her  reward  and  got  it. 


344  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

The  track  was  full  of  curves,  so  she  almost 
ran  into  Alvin  before  seeing  him.  He  was 
walking  the  ties,  cap  in  hand,  and  the  sun's 
rays  which  seemed  to  be  gathering  them- 
selves into  the  usual  crimson  ball  before  sink- 
ing behind  the  western  mountains,  gave  a 
glint  of  gold  to  his  dark  curls.  All  was  silent 
save  for  a  mourning  dove  cooing  dolefully 
in  a  distant  thicket.  They  greeted  one  an- 
other like  old  friends  and  such  they  became 
before  another  week  had  elapsed.  Alvin 
found  it  convenient  to  come  down  the  follow- 
ing evening  to  have  Cora's  father  mend  his 
grubbing  hoe,  another  night  he  wanted  his 
pole  axe  sharpened,  and  so  on. 

The  stern  parents  liked  to  talk  with  the 
young  man ;  he  was  a  relief  in  an  existence 
where  they  sometimes  did  not  speak  to  an 
outsider  in  two  weeks.  In  the  winter  Alvin 
decided  he  would  be  doing  old  man  Ilgen  an 
injustice  if  he  left  him;  Ilgen  likewise  was 
lonely,  although  he  knew  in  his  heart  that 
the  young  fellow  was  an  exceptionally  "dull- 
ess"  workman. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  345 

With  the  spring  came  two  new  elements 
into  Cora's  development.  One  was  she  was 
forbidden  to  see  her  admirer,  whose  reputa- 
tion had  become  tarnished ;  the  other  was  the 
building  of  a  spur  from  the  prop-timber  rail- 
way to  the  head  of  the  hollow  above  her 
home.  There  were  four  bubbling  springs  in 
the  glen,  one  very  near  the  summit,  which 
decided  the  prop-timber  men  to  locate  the 
camps  at  the  terminus  of  their  tracks.  The 
flat  where  the  pitch  pines  were  standing 
stretched  for  miles,  consequently  the  job 
would  last  for  five  years  at  least,  and  the 
camps  would  be  extensive. 

This  caused  great  rejoicing  in  the  Pember- 
ton  home ;  sociable  neighbors  and  steady  em- 
ployment had  descended  upon  them  with  one 
swoop.  Cora  was  the  exception  to  the  rule; 
she  did  not  enthuse  much  over  the  new  order 
of  things ;  she  was  still  mopey  over  her  segre- 
gation from  Alvin.  Among  the  first  to  ar- 
rive on  the  scene  were  the  superintendent, 
Edson  Maugher,  and  his  son,  Earle.  It  was 
policy  to  curry  favor  with  the  natives,  so 


346  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

they  promptly  visited  the  Pembertons,  offer- 
ing work  to  father  and  son. 

The  superintendent  explained  that  most  of 
his  time  was  spent  in  Youngmanstown ;  his 
son  was  practically  his  assistant  and  would 
live  at  the  camp,  acting  as  timekeeper,  book- 
keeper and  general  representative.  This 
stamped  the  son  as  no  common  youth,  and 
Pemberton  and  his  boy  gazed  at  him  in 
admiration. 

Earle  Maugher  was  a  pleansant-looking 
youth  of  twenty,  standing  a  couple  of  inches 
under  six  feet,  with  brown  hair,  blue  eyes 
and  regular  features.  He  was  of  slight  build, 
which  indicated  his  labors  had  been  more 
academic  than  manual.  He  was  introduced 
to  Mrs.  Pemberton  and  her  daughters,  but 
his  fancy  seemed  to  light  on  Cora.  What  a 
wonderful  thing  it  was  to  be  out  in  the  woods 
following  a  congenial  occupation,  with  such 
a  pretty  girl  as  a  neighbor.  He  was  a  modest 
lad,  but  the  interest  he  felt  for  the  young 
beauty  spurred  him  to  more  courage  than 
was  his  wont.  Every  evening  he  came  down 
to  Pemberton's;  he  could  look  at  Cora,  even 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  347 

if  he  felt  a  little  reserved  about  becoming 
better  acquainted. 

But  in  course  of  time  this  wore  away,  and 
he  even  imagined  that  she  liked  him  a  little. 
His  world  was  not  hers,  and  though  he  tried 
his  utmost,  the  stories  of  his  athletic  feats 
at  high  school  did  not  interest  her  as  he 
would  have  liked.  One  Sunday  evening,  by 
accident  he  happened  into  the  keynote  of  the 
situation.  He  heard  loud  voices  as  he  neared 
the  house;  it  was  Pemberton  and  his  wife 
scolding  Cora.  He  heard  the  voice  of  her 
sister,  Esther,  saying,  "I  saw  them  together  ; 
she  can't  lie  out  of  it."  Evidently  they  were 
berating  her  for  meeting  some  one  clandes- 
tinely, presumably  a  man. 

A  hot  shudder  ran  through  the  young  fel- 
low, for  his  intentions  were  serious,  and  now 
he  found  himself  only  a  supernumerary. 
After  he  knocked  on  the  door,  the  voices 
stopped  instantly,  but  Cora  looked  flushed, 
and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  telling 
the  story  better  than  words.  Being  too 
much  in  love  to  turn  back,  Earle  continued 
his  nightly  visits,  and  tried  to  spend  his  Sun- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


days  around  the  premises  so  that  Cora's 
chances  of  seeing  his  unknown  rival  would 
be  lessened. 

In  the  late  fall  one  of  the  men  in  camp  told 
him  the  whole  story.  Cora  was  a  beautiful 
girl,  everyone  recognized  that,  but  she  was 
inclined  to  be  wild,  and  was  infatuated  with 
a  worthless  fellow  named  Alvin  Dietrich.  It 
was  a  great  pity ;  her  parents  had  tried  every- 
thing, but  she  would  always  outwit  them  and 
meet  the  rascal  on  the  sly. 

The  young  man  lay  awake  all  night;  first 
it  was  chagrin  that  prevented  sleep,  then  it 
was  constructing  plans  to  stop  the  foolish  in- 
trigue and  get  the  girl.  When  morning 
dawned  through  the  one  window  of  his  pri- 
vate shack,  he  had  decided  on  a  plan  of  ac- 
tion. He  would  ask  Cora  to  marry  him  at 
once,  she  would  learn  to  love  him  surely,  and 
if  she  hesitated,  he  would  enlist  the  aid  of 
her  parents  to  consummate  the  match.  These 
were  ridiculous  ideas,  but  Earle  was  only 
twenty  and  very  much  in  love. 

That  evening  when  he  hurried  down  to  the 
Pemberton  shanty  to  put  his  plan  into  exe- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  349 

cution,  Cora  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  He  in- 
quired of  the  mother,  but  she  looked  blankly 
out  of  the  window  and  pretended  not  to  hear. 
He  asked  Esther,  but  she  went  on  with  her 
sewing.  As  he  stood  in  the  doorway,  em- 
barrassed by  the  silence,  Pemberton  himself 
came  in,  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder, 
motioning  him  to  come  outside.  The  young 
man  followed  the  lanky  mountaineer  to  the 
woodshed,  who  took  a  seat  on  the  frayed 
chopping-block. 

Earle,  pale  and  nervous,  leaned  against  the 
wall  eyeing  him  intently.  "My  friend,"  be- 
gan the  mountaineer,  "a  great  sorrow  has 
come  to  us,  Cora  is  in  trouble  and  says  you 

are ."     Earle,  instead  of  being  shaken, 

was  exultant,  and  broke  in  quickly,  "Yes, 
sir,  it  is  true,  I  am  only  too  glad  to  marry 
her;  tomorrow  if  you  say  the  word."  Pem- 
berton looked  at  him  intently ;  "I  would  never 
have  believed  it,  I  thought  it  was  the  scoun- 
drel Dietrich,  and  she  was  blaming  you  to 
shield  him,  but  with  your  word  it  must  be 
true." 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


Nothing  more  was  said  until  they  had  re- 
entered  the  cabin.  Pemberton  made  an  af- 
firmative nod  to  his  wife,  who  hesitated  a 
minute,  and  then  went  to  the  door  of  the 
stairway  leading  to  the  room  under  the  roof, 
calling  Cora  to  come  down.  She  didn't  show 
any  signs  of  acquiescing,  so  her  mother  had 
to  open  the  door  a  second  time  and  speak 
to  her  sharply. 

With  faltering  steps  the  girl  came  down, 
and  when  she  appeared  her  eyes  and  lips 
were  swollen  from  crying.  Earle  rushed  to 
her  and  caught  her  in  his  arms,  kissing  her  a 
half  dozen  times.  When  he  released  her,  it 
was  easy  to  see  she  had  not  been  soothed  by 
this  lover-like  demonstration.  She  seemed 
pettish  and  rebellious,  and  her  parents  sat 
on  the  stiff  wooden  chairs  as  rigid  as  the 
chairs,  dumbfounded  at  her  conduct.  The 
young  man  repeated  in  her  presence  that  he 
was  ready  to  marry  her  the  next  day,  but  she 
answered  very  bluntly,  "The  day  after  to- 
morrow would  suit  me  better." 

The  relations  of  all  parties  were  strained, 
so  Earle  hurried  away  as  quickly  as  possible. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  351 

As  he  climbed  the  path  up  the  ravine,  his 
brain  whirled  with  conflicting  emotions.  He 
loved  Cora,  he  knew  that;  he  would  marry 
her,  though  he  was  entirely  innocent  of  the 
charge  made  against  him ;  but  would  she  love 
him,  could  he  interest  her,  could  he  hold  her, 
after  they  were  married?  Something  told 
him  it  was  futility  to  marry  a  girl  whose 
body  and  soul  were  another's,  but  then  came 
the  overmastering  knowledge  of  his  love ;  he 
was  arguing  in  a  circle. 

Outside  the  main  boarding  house  a  big 
woodsman  was  leaning  against  the  wall,  soli- 
tary and  massive,  in  the  darkness.  "Hello, 
Earle,"  he  called  out;  "heard  the  news?  Al- 
vin  Dietrich's  jumped  a  freight  and  gone  to 
parts  unknown.  Another  girl  scrape,  I  cal- 
culate." 

"Why  is  it,"  thought  Earle,  "we  always 
hear  the  very  thing  we  don't  want  to  hear 
and  hope  isn't  true,  at  the  time  when  we  are 
thinking  of  it  ourselves?"  He  merely  said 
goodnight  to  the  woodsman,  and  passed  on 
to  his  own  shack.  The  next  day  he  offered 
himself  as  an  object  of  congratulations  to 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


several  of  the  younger  men  in  the  camp.  "I'm 
going  to  be  married  to  Cora  Pemberton  to- 
morrow," was  all  he  said. 

They  shook  his  hand  warmly,  but  once  he 
thought  he  detected  two  of  the  husky  lads  ex- 
changing glances.  At  noon  hour  he  wended 
his  way  to  his  sweetheart's  home,  arriving 
there  just  as  the  family  were  finishing  din- 
ner. Mrs.  Pemberton  urged  him  to  take  a 
seat  at  the  table,  but  he  was  too  nervous  to 
eat,  and  said  he  didn't  care  for  anything. 
Cora  looked  very  white,  and  hardly  spoke  to 
him  as  he  entered.  One  would  have  thought 
he  had  injured  her  in  some  way  instead  of 
being  her  unselfish  benefactor.  He  said  they 
would  start  at  daybreak  for  the  county  seat 
to  get  the  license,  and  after  the  wedding  he'd 
take  her  to  Atlantic  City. 

Before  leaving  he  asked  her  to  walk  with 
him  to  the  gate,  and  she  assented  sullenly. 
When  they  got  where  no  one  could  hear, 
Earle  summoned  up  courage  and  said,  "If  I 
didn't  love  you  so  much,  I  would  never  have 
submitted  to  the  charge  you  brought  against 
me.  You  know  in  the  entire  length  of  our 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  353 

acquaintance  I  never  kissed  you  a  dozen 
times." 

Cora  looked  down  at  the  path,  and  replied, 
"If  I  wasn't  sure  of  your  love,  I'd  have  never 
brought  you  into  this;  I  knew  you  would 
stand  by  me." 

The  young  man  smiled  with  exultation,  but 
his  happiness  was  short-lived.  After  a  pause 
the  girl  went  on,  "I  don't  love  you  a  bit; 
Alvin  is  the  one  I  care  for,  but  he  is  gone, 
and  I  will  never  see  him  again.  He  always 
told  me  if  I  ever  got  this  way  he'd  jump  a 
freight  and  never  come  back.  It  is  all  my 
fault,  and  I  must  suffer  the  consequences." 

Earle  took  his  medicine  bravely,  saying, 
"But  you  are  going  to  love  me  soon ;  I  will  be 
so  happy  with  you,  that  I  am  sure  you  will 
be."  Then  he  clasped  her  hand,  and  started 
up  the  path. 

Cora's  mother  was  standing  in  the  door, 
and,  as  she  passed,  she  urged  her  in  angry 
tones  to  get  her  things  together  for  her  wed- 
ding journey.  "Mind,  it  is  a  long  drive  to 
Derrstown.  You'll  have  no  time  for  packing 
in  the  morning,  and  you  want  to  have  all 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


your  best  things  with  you  if  you're  going  to 
'Atlantic.'  " 

Cora  wondered  what  her  mother  meant  by 
"best  things;"  as  far  as  she  was  aware  her 
wardrobe  was  as  plain  as  it  was  limited. 

During  the  afternoon  she  pretended  to 
pack  a  little  and  sew  a  little,  but  her  thoughts 
were  far  away.  Several  times  when  her 
mother  spoke  to  her  she  failed  to  answer. 
Occasionally  she  would  gaze  through  the  win- 
dow down  the  hollow,  to  the  railroad  where 
the  rails  were  gleaming  in  the  sun.  While 
her  mother  was  preparing  supper  she  slipped 
out  the  back  door  and  ran  down  the  hill. 

It  was  already  dark  enough  to  make  the 
opening  of  the  tunnel  resemble  the  yawning 
mouth  of  a  cavern.  She  quickly  walked 
along  the  cinder  path  below  the  track  in  the 
direction  of  the  swart  labyrinth.  She  had 
not  been  gone  five  minutes  when  Earle  ap- 
peared at  the  house,  and,  not  finding  her, 
a  search  was  started.  Esther,  always  wisest 
on  her  sister's  habits,  suggested  that  she  had 
probably  gone  for  a  stroll  on  the  railroad. 
This  excited  the  young  man,  as  he  feared  that 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  355 

after  all  she  might  have  a  rendezvous  with 
Dietrich ;  at  any  rate  she  had  headed  for  her 
her  old-time  trysting  place. 

He  rushed  head-long  down  the  ravine,  and 
looked  up  and  down  the  tracks,  but  no  figure- 
in  white  relieved  the  blank  darkness.  Far 
within  the  recesses  of  the  tunnel  he  heard 
the  hissing  and  rumble  of  an  approaching 
freight.  He  started  in  the  direction  from 
whence  it  was  coming;  he  knew  not  why. 
Just  when  the  yellow  glare  of  the  headlight 
streamed  out  upon  the  ties,  like  fire  from  a 
dragon's  mouth  crawling  from  his  pit,  he 
saw  a  slender  form  all  in  white  run  out  from 
a  clump  of  gray  birches  beside  the  track.  He 
ran  forward;  it  was  Cora  bent  on  self-de- 
struction. 

He  was  a  swift  runner,  and  was  within  a 
yard  of  her  when  the  ponderous  cow-catcher 
hit  her.  As  she  was  ground  under,  like  a 
daisy  beneath  a  reaper,  her  eyes  met  his  and 
she  cried  out,  "I  don't  like  you.  I  love  Alvin. 
I  don't  want  to  live  without  him." 

The  engineman  brought  the  big  compound 
to  a  stop  with  a  jerk,  sending  a  shudder 


356  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

through  the  long  line  of  "battleships,"  that 
sounded  like  the  train's  groan  of  despair  over 
the  beautiful  thing  it  had  destroyed. 

The  entire  crew  grouped  themselves  about 
Earle,  whose  ill-concealed  tears  betrayed  the 
grief  he  felt.  There  was  little  to  say,  the 
trainmen  knew  the  story  as  well  as  had  the 
prop-timber  men.  The  old  engineman  mopped 
his  brow  with  his  red  cotton  handkerchief  as 
if  perplexed  at  what  was  to  be  done ;  then  he 
faltered,  "Love  is  a  terrible  thing  when  folks 
are  very  young." 


THE  "BLACK  FOREST"  TODAY 


XXIV. 
THE  VISTA 

WAS  sitting  on  a  log  looking 
along  the  Vista,  which  was 
a  natural  runway  for  deer, 
one    bright    November 
morning  during  the  hunt- 
ing season.     Bill  had  gone 
on  ahead  to  see  if  he  could 
obtain  a  closer  view  of  a 

1 

i 

^J2J^ 
dflT« 

w 

we  had  shot  at,  but  missed  an  hour  or  two 
earlier,  but  I  concluded  to  test  my  luck  by 
remaining  where  I  was. 

My  rifle  lay  across  my  knees,  and  when  I 
was  not  day-dreaming,  or  watching  a  Coop- 
er's hawk  circling  high  above  in  the  tur- 
quoise dome,  I  would  squeeze  with  my  fingers 
the  ends  of  a  small  light  mustache.  It 
couldn't  have  been  much  of  a  mustache,  for 
I  was  just  nineteen,  and  it  has  been  shaved 
off  now  ten  years. 


357 


358  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

"The  Vista"  was  one  of  the  oddest  of  the 
many  odd  sights  of  the  famous  Black  Forest, 
and  it  is  hard  to  realize  that  the  woodsman's 
axe  has  levelled  the  entire  forest  into  a 
desert  vista  within  the  short  space  of  the 
same  ten  years.  This  sylvan  canyon  had 
been  devised  by  old  Shadrach  Glover,  thirty- 
five  years  before,  in  order  to  get  a  "line"  on 
bees.  To  do  so,  evidently  regarding  nature's 
prodigality  as  limitless,  he  demolished  the 
timber  on  a  strip  ten  feet  wide,  a  mile  in 
length,  stretching  to  where  the  mountain 
dipped  towards  the  waters  of  Lovett's  Run. 

The  giant  virgin  white  pines  stood  so  thick 
that  the  trees  which  had  been  cut  could  not 
fall,  but  leaned  against  the  standing  timber, 
embracing  them  with  their  sharp-tipped, 
barkless  branches  like  the  time-worn  story 
of  hideous  skeletons  embracing  wedding 
guests.  A  tangle  of  tall  rhododendrons  grew 
about  their  base,  seeking  to  hide  the  ugly 
stumps.  Whenever  a  slight  breeze  blew,  they 
rattled'  like  skeletons,  and  wheezed  and 
sawed  and  gibbered  as  they  rubbed  their 
weather-toughened  trunks  against  the  bark 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  359 

of  the  live  trees  which  very  unwillingly  acted 
as  their  supporters. 

Bill  seemed  absent  a  long  while,  and  I  felt 
he  must  have  lost  his  quarry,  else  I  would 
have  heard  the  heavy  report  of  his  "machine 
gun."  I  did  not  like  to  leave  this  unique 
spot,  knowing  I  would  never  see  its  like 
again,  as  the  jobbers  had  almost  finished  the 
corduroy  road  from  Lovett's  to  Pine  Bottom 
Run,  which  meant  that  the  work  of  the  lum- 
bermen on  what  was  one  of  the  last  remain- 
ing large  bodies  of  original  pine  in  the  state, 
would  soon  commence. 

Just  as  I  was  most  restless,  four  heavy 
volleys  rang  out  on  the  bracing  air;  they 
were  far  away,  yet  their  echoes  seemed  to 
rack  and  shake  the  severed  trunks  of  the 
dead  pines,  dying  down  in  the  forest  depths 
like  the  last  notes  of  a  violin.  1  jumped  up, 
and  was  about  to  hurry  north  along  the  Vista 
when  out  of  the  rhododendrons  emerged  the 
figure  of  a  wonderfully  beautiful  young  girl. 
It  was  practically  winter  and  her  head  was 
covered  with  a  dark  blue  "fascinator"  placed 
far  enough  back  to  reveal  the  intense  black- 


360  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

ness  of  her  hair,  the  blackest  I  have  ever  seen 
on  a  human  being. 

Her  eyes  were  equally  black,  with  a  pecu- 
liarly pleasing,  sprightly  expression,  and  her 
white  skin  had  just  a  touch  of  color  to  it,  re- 
calling a  description  I  had  read  of  "a  rose  re- 
flected through  a  vase  of  alabaster."  She 
wore  a  brown  worsted  jacket,  coming  half 
way  down  on  her  dark  blue  calico  dress,  and 
showing  her  trim  little  figure  to  advantage. 
She  carried  a  tin  pail  with  a  top  on  it,  which 
she  swung  as  she  walked.  We  both  seemed 
surprised  to  meet  in  this  sequestered  spot, 
but  I  started  the  acquaintance  by  inquiring  if 
she  knew  who  had  fired  the  shots. 

"Why,  that's  my  friend,  Solon  Tussey," 
she  replied  jubilantly,  "we  were  coming  along 
together  when  the  biggest  buck  I  ever  saw  in 
my  life  crossed  the  creek  ahead  of  us ;  it  was 
too  far  for  a  shot,  so  he  left  me  to  trail  it 
down." 

"Where  are  you  going  with  the  bucket?" 
I  asked. 

"Why,  we  were  going  to  Grindstone  Hill  to 
see  old  Mammy  Kephart,  who  is  very  sick. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


Solon  cut  a  bee  tree  yesterday,  and  I  thought 
she'd  fancy  some  of  the  honey." 

"But,"  she  added,  in  her  quick,  enthusias- 
tic manner,  "Grindstone  Hill  can't  mean  any- 
thing to  you ;  you  don't  belong  in  these  parts. 
I've  never  seen  you  even  in  Williamsport." 

"No,"  I  replied,  "I  don't  come  from  this 
section,  not  even  from  Williamsport ;  my 
home's  in  New  York  City." 

"New  York  City,"  said  she,  seating  herself 
beside  me  on  the  log;  "that's  a  long  ways 
off.  I've  always  wanted  to  go  there;  it 
must  be  a  grand  place;  but  there's  one 
city  I'd  rather  go  to  than  anywhere  else,  and 
that's  Paris." 

"Paris,"  I  said,  "how  did  you  ever  get  to 
thinking  about  Paris  when  Philadelphia  and 
New  York  can  be  reached  in  a  day's 
journey?" 

"Well,  my  father's  ancestors,  so  the  story 
goes,  came  from  Paris,  that's  why  I  want  to 
go  there.  My  father  wanted  to  go  there,  my 
grandfather  also,  and  they  say  my  great- 
grandfather started  for  the  old  country,  but 


362  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

died  after  only  getting  as  far  as  Harris- 
burg." 

"Have  you  formed  any  idea  of  what  Paris 
looks  like,  or  how  to  get  there?"  I  inquired. 

"Yes,"  she  said  smilingly.  "I  reckon  I 
know  a  lot  about  it;  I  can  see  it  all  in  my 
mind's  eye,  the  Place  Vendome,  the  Seine, 
the  Louvre,  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  Napo- 
leon's Tomb,  the  Champs  Elysee,  the  Arch 
of  Triumph,  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  Auteuil, 
Longchamps,  Notre  Dame;  yes,  the  Musee 
Carnavalet,  and  even  the  Place  des  Vosges, 
the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  Mont  Valerien  and 
Versailles." 

"Where  on  earth  did  you  learn  the  names 
of  so  many  places,  and  how  can  you  pro- 
nounce them  with  the  proper  accent?" 

"I  got  the  names  out  of  an  old  book  called 
'Atlas  of  Paris,'  by  Maxine  Ducamp;  I  have 
gotten  the  pronunciation  from  an  English 
and  French  dictionary;  my  school  teacher 
found  them  for  me  in  a  second-hand  book 
store  in  Philadelphia. 

"Why,  I  could  flatten  out  that  giant  ant- 
hill yonder  and  on  it  draw  you  a  diagram  of 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


the  city  and  its  boulevards,  only  I  haven't  the 
time  and  I  don't  want  to  disturb  the  ants.  It 
has  been  my  dream  to  visit  Paris.  I'm  sure  I'd 
feel  at  home  there,  and  if  I  wait,  my  time  will 
come.  I'd  love  to  go  now,  when  I'm  young, 
and  can  enjoy  the  parks  and  rivers,  and  feel 
like  climbing  the  Eiffel  Tower !" 

"Why  don't  you  try  and  arrange  a  trip? 
It  isn't  difficult  or  expensive." 

"I  wouldn't  know  how ;  I  had  hopes  a  few 
months  ago,  but  now  since  I've  promised 
Solon  I'd  marry  him,  the  prospects  don't  look 
good. 

"Were  you  ever  in  Paris  ?" 
I  replied  that  I  had  been  there  on  several 
occasions,  which  seemed  to  impress  the  young 
girl  mightily,  for  it  sent  a  rush  of  color  into 
her  pretty  cheeks. 

"Were  you  really  there?  You  are  the  first 
person  I  ever  met  who  even  said  he  had  been. 
Now  to  prove  it,  tell  me  on  which  side  of  the 
Seine  is  the  Rue  de  la  Cote  d'Or?" 

"I  was  unable  to  answer,  but  I  laughed  so 
spontaneously,  that  she  was  convinced  of  my 
sincerity. 


364  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

"Do  you  expect  to  go  again  soon?" 

I  hesitated  a  minute  before  replying  and 
said,  looking  her  full  in  those  marvelous 
black  eyes,  "I'll  tell  you  if  you  first  let  me 
know  your  name  and  your  age." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with 
your  next  trip  to  Paris,  but  I'm  certainly  not 
ashamed  of  my  name;  it's  Elgie  Barton; 
you've  heard  of  old  Larius  Barton  on  the 
Pike ;  he's  my  uncle ;  and  I'm  not  ashamed  of 
my  age,  either,  even  if  I'm  only  seventeen." 

"If  you  weren't  about  to  get  married  we 
could  both  start  for  Paris  next  week." 

"Start  for  Paris  next  week!"  she  ex- 
claimed, dropping  her  bucket  among  the 
mosses.  "I  suppose  Solon  would  wait  until 
I  got  back;  I  could  see  all  I  wanted  in  six 
weeks." 

"But,"  I  interposed,  "if  you  went  on  a  long 
trip  like  that  with  me,  we'd  have  to  get  mar- 
ried ;  we  don't  look  enough  alike  to  travel  as 
brother  and  sister." 

"We  surely  don't,"  she  answered,  after 
scrutinizing  me  from  head  to  foot.  "You're  a 
stranger,  but  you've  been  to  Paris  and  are 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  365 

willing  to  take  me  there;  that's  bigger  in- 
ducement than  most  men  offer  when  they  are 
courting  girls.  I  think  I  can  easily  care  for 
you.  I'll  go  with  you;  I'll  start  now.  But 
promise  me  if  we  can't  agree,  you'll  leave  me 
stay  in  Paris."  This  from  a  mountain  girl 
ten  years  before  the  subject  of  "trial  marri- 
ages" had  been  heard  of  by  the  average 
person. 

"Hadn't  you  better  tell  your  folks?"  I  ven- 
tured. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Elgie,  "my  mother 
and  step-father  aren't  the  least  interested  in 
Paris,  but  it's  also  possible  if  I  told  them  they 
might  say  they'd  come  along,  and  I  wouldn't 
want  to  impose  so  many  on  you  until  we  are 
better  acquainted." 

"If  we  two  were  together,  we'd  have  more 
time  for  sightseeing;  my  mother's  rheu- 
matic; one  of  us  would  have  to  be  with  her 
always.  I'm  afraid,  too,  they'd  both  get  sea- 
sick, and  that  would  never  do. 

"Oh,  how  I'd  love  to  see  an  'Ocean  Liner.' 
I've  dreamed  about  walking  the  decks  hun- 
dreds of  times.  I've  read  all  about  the 


366  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

Oceanic,  the  Teutonic,  the  Campania,  the 
Kaiser  Wilhelm  der  Grosse,  the  Gascoyne, 
the  Touraine.  Which  shall  we  take?" 

"This  is  the  happiest  moment  of  my  life," 
she  added,  as  we  clasped  hands  to  seal  the 
bargain.  I  put  the  rifle  on  my  shoulder,  and 
we  got  up,  heading  for  the  Quinn's  Run 
road  to  begin  the  first  stage  of  our  unpre- 
meditated journey.  We  had  to  laugh  when 
we  noticed  the  quantity  and  quality  of  our 
baggage,  one  38-55  Savage  rifle,  one  quart 
tin  bucket  full  of  honey. 

"This  is  the  happiest  moment  of  my  life,"  I 
thought  as  I  gazed  at  my  beautiful  and  inter- 
esting companion.  We  had  not  gone  a  hun- 
dred yards  when  we  heard  voices  in  the  dark 
thicket  of  rhododendrons;  then  I  saw  Bill's 
smiling  face  appear,  and  soon  after  the  face 
of  a  tall  dark  youth.  "We  both  fired  at  the 
same  time,"  called  Bill,  "and  from  each  side 
of  the  hollow,  but  my  bullets  did  the  work; 
say,  he's  an  old  'socker,'  has  eleven  points, 
and  will  weigh  at  least  two  hundred  and  fifty 
hog-dressed." 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  367 

Then  the  young  man  broke  in,  "Too  bad, 
Elgie,  to  make  you  wait  so  long,  but  that 
buck  was  worth  a  week  of  waiting,  even  if 
our  friend  gets  the  honor  of  the  kill."  And 
without  another  word  the  boy  and  girl  filed 
off  into  the  path  that  wound  its  way  among 
the  rhododendrons  under  the  tall  white  pines. 

We  waved  good-bye,  and  I  dropped  down 
on  another  log.  "Why  don't  you  congratu- 
late me  on  my  fine  marksmanship  ?"  said  Bill, 
"he's  got  eleven  points  on  each  horn;  you'll 
say  he's  the  biggest  ever  when  you  help  carry 
him  over  to  the  new  corduroy." 

But  I  did  not  have  much  to  say.  My  eyes 
were  glued  on  the  tangle  of  dark  leaves  which 
had  closed,  undoubtedly  forever,  between  me 
and  that  clever  and  attractive  mountain 
maid.  It  was  not  until  we  saw  the  Cooper's 
hawk  make  a  downward  dart  from  the  tur- 
quoise dome  that  I  followed  my  hunting  com- 
rade reluctantly  in  the  direction  of  the  fallen 
antlered  monarch. 

Many,  many  things  have  happened  to  me 
since,  but  whenever  I  visit  Bill  at  McElhattan 
and  see  that  set  of  eleven-pronged  antlers  on 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


the  wall  of  his  workshop,  my  thoughts  go 
back  through  a  vista  of  ten  years  to  little 
Elgie  Barton,  and  the  trip  to  Paris  we  might 
have  had,  if  we  had  only  started  a  minute  or 
two  sooner. 


THE  PITCHER  PLANT 
XXV. 

ES,  the  Bear  Meadows  has  a 
ghost,  but  such  a  frail,  in- 
determinate one  that  when 
it  appears  on  the  first 
nights  of  the  New  Moon,  it 
is  hard  to  tell  if  it  is  really 
an  apparition  or  merely  a 
trail  of  transparent,  sil- 
very light  from  the  heaven- 
ly crescent.  But,  whether  wraith  or  moon- 
beam, it  has  shown  through  the  elbow  of  a 
gnarled,  half-dead  white  oak  every  new  moon 
for  the  past  twenty  years,  like  a  spangled 
scarf  across  a  balustrade. 

If  a  ghost,  it  is  a  modern  one,  for  none  of 
the  old  settlers  remembered  it  when  the  red- 
spruce  forest  existed,  and  the  Bear  Meadows 
was  famed  as  the  botanical  wonder  of  the 
State.  The  only  way  to  "lay  it"  would  be  to 
cut  down  the  mis-shapen  white  oak,  but  as  it 
has  been  scorched  so  often  by  forest  fires  to 


370  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

be  of  no  commercial  value,  no  one  would  take 
that  trouble.  One  of  the  old  settlers  who 
has  lived  on  the  outskirts  of  the  Meadows  for 
forty  years  has  very  decided  notions  concern- 
ing the  ghost.  He  is  sure  it  did  not  antedate 
the  lumbermen;  he  is  equally  sure  that  he 
knows  whose  ghost  it  is. 

"I  saw  the  ghost  almost  the  first  night  it 
appeared.  I  made  up  my  mind  all  about  it, 
but  it  wasn't  my  business  to  talk,"  he  told  me 
when  I  met  him  on  the  train  en-route  to  the 
Belief  on  te  Fair.  "It  came  the  year  after  they 
slashed  out  the  big  spruces,  but  that  wasn't 
the  reason ;  would  you  like  to  hear  about  it?" 
I  was  very  much  interested,  especially  as  I 
had  not  been  fortunate  to  see  the  Meadows 
in  the  days  of  the  giant  pines  and  spruces, 
when  botanists  found  it  a  paradise  for  their 
researches.  To  me  it  was  a  wretched-looking 
region,  but  if  it  possessed  a  ghost,  a  compen- 
sation had  been  found  for  its  desolated  areas. 

"Before  they  cut  the  timber  and  the  fires 
went  through,"  resumed  the  old  settler,  "quite 
a  few  families  drew  their  entire  support 
from  the  Meadows.  Game  was  plentiful, 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  371 

and  hunters  were  never  disappointed  when 
they  went  after  deer.  Often  they  brought 
back  bears,  catamounts,  foxes  and  even 
wolves,  while  the  wild  turkeys  and  'pheasants' 
would  have  fed  every  one  in  the  neighbor- 
hood if  all  other  sources  of  supply  failed. 
Trappers  made  a  nice  living,  as  did  berry- 
pickers,  and  the  folks  who  cut  a  few  choice 
trees  here  and  there.  Trout  abounded  in  the 
streams,  and  some  of  the  biggest  in  the  State 
were  caught  there. 

"Among  the  families  dependent  on  the 
Meadows  for  their  support  were  the  Nolls. 
They  were  a  young  couple,  the  husband, 
Zacharias,  was  less  than  thirty,  the  wife  pos- 
sibly twenty-five,  and  they  had  three  of  the 
prettiest  children  I  ever  laid  eyes  on.  I  al- 
ways thought  Zacharias  a  dull  sort  of  a  fel- 
low before  he  took  to  the  woods.  He  tried 
operating  for  a  time  along  the  L.  &  T.,  but 
when  he  got  fresh  with  the  son  of  one  of  the 
railway  officials  who  stopped  at  the  station 
where  he  was  working,  while  on  a  fishing 
trip,  the  superintendent  was  glad  of  the 
chance  to  hand  him  a  'permanent  vacation.' 


372  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

"Then  he  tried  clerking  at  Coburn,  driving 
team,  and  bossing  on  a  road  job,  but  he  made 
good  at  nothing,  until  he  saw  the  opportuni- 
ties in  the  Meadows.  It  was  an  easy  life; 
all  he  had  to  do  was  to  set  his  traps  and  get 
them  full  of  bears,  foxes,  raccoons,  martens, 
minks  and  weasels,  and  once  he  actually  got 
a  black  wolf.  A  fur  dealer  down  to  Lewis- 
burg  gave  him  $15  for  the  hide,  which  was  a 
beauty.  He  would  go  into  the  woods,  sit  on  a 
log  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  come  home  with  a 
fine  deer.  I  have  seen  him  prop  his  fishing 
rod  on  the  bank  and  try  to  doze,  but  the  trout 
bit  so  fast,  he  didn't  have  time  for  a  good 
snooze.  Sometimes  he  would  sneak  a  couple 
of  choice  spruce  logs  to  the  mill. 

"Some  of  the  land  was  in  dispute  over  the 
ownership;  while  it  went  on  the  young  man 
felt  he  must  not  allow  the  trees  to  grow  too 
thick.  The  wife  was  a  very  different  sort  of 
person.  She  was,  first  of  all,  as  pretty  as  a 
picture,  but  that  isn't  saying  the  husband 
was  not  good  looking,  for  he  surely  was. 
She  was  a  fair-haired  girl,  but  not  one  of 
those  washed-out  blondes  that  we  mountain- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  373 

eers  dislike.  Her  hair  was  the  color  of  real 
gold,  like  you  see  in  wedding  rings,  and 
smooth,  and  soft,  and  very  abundant. 
Though  she  had  three  living  children,  and 
had  buried  a  fourth,  her  figure  was  as  slight 
and  straight  as  the  day  she  married. 

"Folks  wondered  why  she  married  the  man 
she  did,  but  not  I,  for  who  else  better  could 
she  have  married?  All  the  boys  that  lived 
around  the  Meadows  were  the  same;  some 
went  away  and  stuck  to  their  jobs,  but  all 
at  heart  had  a  hankering  to  be  back  and  fool 
with  the  bear  traps.  The  young  woman  in 
question  was  as  energetic  as  her  husband  was 
lazy.  She  was  always  reading  books,  and 
when  she  couldn't  afford  to  send  off  for  them 
borrowed  them  in  every  direction.  I  have 
known  her  to  walk  five  miles  to  get  the  loan 
of  a  book.  She  was  interested  in  all  the  trees 
and  plants  in  the  Meadows,  and  was  the  only 
person  hereabouts  who  expressed  regret 
when  the  lumbermen  got  busy  among  the 
red  spruces.  'It'll  help  rid  out  the  wildcats 
and  foxes,'  was  the  only  way  most  of  us  com- 
mented on  the  new  order  of  things. 


374  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

"If  we  had  looked  ahead,  we  would  have 
put  her  down  as  a  smart  woman,  as  after  the 
timber  was  cut  the  streams  dried  out,  the 
springs  disappeared,  and  with  the  wildcats 
and  foxes  went  all  the  other  fur-bearing  and 
game  animals  that  gave  us  our  livelihood. 
We  often  wished  the  forest  back,  with  all  its 
cats  and  foxes,  but  ultimately  most  every  one 
got  tired  of  wishing  and  moved  away.  I  felt 
too  old  to  move,  but  I  wished  I  had,  as  I  can't 
find  much  financial  return  from  the  ghost, 
and  animals  are  too  scarce  to  hunt  if  the 
state  won't  pay  a  bounty. 

"Well,  to  return  to  the  young  couple,  it  did 
seem  as  if  they  were  drifting  apart.  There 
is  a  'seed  time'  with  human  beings  just  as 
there  is  with  plants.  After  the  aeed  is 
planted  and  comes  forth  in  a  harvest  of  little 
folks,  or  else  nature's  attempt  to  produce  the 
same,  couples  unless  they  are  exactly  mated 
temperamentally  invariably  begin  growing 
away  from  one  another.  Flowers  are  fertil- 
ized by  the  pollen  from  different  plants. 
Elizabeth  Noll  seemed  bent  on  educating  her- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  375 

self,  Zacharias  Noll  to  while  away  his  time 
in  the  woods. 

"There  was  big  excitement  in  these  parts 
when  the  lumbermen  were  cleaning  out  the 
Meadows.  Thirty-five  teams  were  employed 
and  over  a  hundred  men  made  up  the  various 
camps.  Board  was  high,  and  everything  we 
could  raise  had  a  ready  market.  Zacharias 
worked  as  an  extra  teamster  occasionally, 
but  was  principally  occupied  supplying  the 
camp  bosses'  tables  with  trout  and  game. 
Elizabeth  took  little  interest  in  the  commer- 
cial side  of  the  operation,  but,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, denounced  the  destruction  of  the  timber 
and  rare  plants  whenever  anyone  would 
listen  to  her.  Once  she  wrote  letters  to  the 
papers  at  Bellefonte  and  Millheim,  but  the 
editors  were  on  the  side  of  the  'lumber  indus- 
try,' and  the  waste  paper  baskets  alone  re- 
ceived her  arguments. 

"With  such  a  force  it  did  not  take  long 
to  turn  the  Meadows  from  a  jungle  to  a 
staked  plain,  where  only  dead  or  deformed 
trees  reared  their  heads  out  of  the  ruin.  The 
sunlight  pouring  into  spaces  where  it  had 


376  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

not  shone  for  centuries,  diminished  the 
water-courses,  dried  up  many  of  the  morasses 
or  quicksands,  and  changed  the  soil  so  that 
the  rare  plants  would  not  grow.  On  top  of 
it  all,  a  hot  spring  fire  swept  over  the  'slash- 
ings,' and  had  it  not  been  for  the  'skunk  cab- 
bages' which  came  out  afterwards,  the  region 
would  have  looked  as  barren  as  the  Sahara. 
The  recently  abandoned  lumbermen's  shan- 
ties were  burnt,  and  the  settlers  had  to  fight 
night  and  day  to  save  their  buildings. 

"Right  on  the  trail  of  the  holocaust  came 
young  Irvin  Bamford,  collecting  fossils,  rep- 
tiles and  plants  for  the  University  of  Penn- 
sylvania. As  quicksilver  is  attracted  to  its 
like,  he  found  a  boarding  place  with  Merrill 
Speary,  who  lived  the  next  house  beyond  the 
Nolls.  Merrill  was  trying  to  farm  and  raise 
pigs,  and  while  his  wife  afforded  good  ac- 
commodations he  could  not  spare  the  time  to 
show  the  youthful  scientist  around  the  moun- 
tains. He  gravitated  to  Zacharias  Noll,  who 
had  the  time,  and  liked  an  excuse  to  be  in  the 
woods,  and  naturally  enough  this  led  to  his 
meeting  the  fair  Elizabeth. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  377 

"Although  Zacharias  did  the  actual  'path- 
finding'  it  was  always  Elizabeth  who  planned 
the  excursions.  After  a  few  days  Bamford 
discovered  things  weren't  as  expected — the 
lumbermen  and  fires  had  changed  the  topog- 
raphy of  the  Meadows,  the  rare  trees,  plants 
and  flowers  were  no  more,  even  the  reptiles 
had  retired  to  more  congenial  surroundings. 
Furthermore,  he  found  in  Elizabeth  an  in- 
telligent acquaintance ;  she  could  describe  the 
Meadows  as  they  were  before  the  despoilers 
laid  them  waste,  and  knew  lots  of  interesting 
things  besides.  Each  day  he  shortened  his 
explorations  in  order  to  spend  more  time 
with  the  attractive  woman. 

"But  he  must  accomplish  his  mission ;  if  he 
could  not  find  his  specimens  here,  he  must 
look  elsewhere.  'I  did  want  to  find  a  good 
example  of  the  pitcher-plant ;  I  was  led  to  be- 
lieve it  grew  plentifully  here,  but  the  fires 
have  driven  it  out,  and  I  really  don't  know 
where  else  I  can  get  a  first-class  one.'  That 
seemed  to  be  his  chief  lament  as  the  time 
drew  near  for  him  to  go.  When  he  said  good- 
bye at  the  gate  he  told  Elizabeth  how  she  had 


378  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

made  his  stay  the  happiest  incident  of  his 
life.  She  looked  down  at  her  two  eldest 
youngsters  tugging  on  her  skirts,  and 
blushed  the  color  of  a  pitcher-plant.  Then 
she  faltered,  7  do  like  you,  but  don't  tell  a 
soul,'  and  turned  away.  'If  I  don't  find  what 
I  want,  I'll  be  back  again  in  a  week,'  he  called 
to  her  as  with  canvas  knapsack  and  butter- 
fly net  he  was  lost  to  sight  in  the  bend  of  the 
road  behind  the  pepperidge  trees. 

"Elizabeth  felt  his  absence  instantly — he 
was  so  different  from  any  man  she  had  ever 
met  before;  he  knew  so  much,  yet  was  so 
simple  and  kindly.  She  tried  to  remember 
every  feature  of  his  face,  his  lithe,  slender 
figure,  his  quiet,  earnest  voice.  It  kept  her 
awake  the  first  night,  and  she  recited  to  her- 
self again  and  again  'he  has  gray  eyes,  an 
arched  nose,  a  clean-cut  mouth,  a  clear  com- 
plexion, hair  that  is  more  red  than  chestnut, 
a  straight  figure,  a  graceful  walk,  hands  that 
take  in  any  situation.' 

"This  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  tried 
to  retain  the  details  of  a  man's  appearance ; 
previously  they  had  either  seemed  handsome 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  379 

or  ugly,  and  there  her  penetration  ended.  She 
didn't  feel  well  the  next  morning,  and  that 
night  was  equally  disquieting,  for  with  some 
paradox  of  fate,  the  features  of  the  man  who 
had  impressed  her  most  seemed  most  difficult 
to  recall. 

"Her  mother,  the  widow  Phoenix,  lived  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Meadows,  so  she  decided 
to  have  a  little  change  and  spend  a  day  with 
her.  Mrs.  Speary  said  she  would  mind  the 
children.  The  day  was  fine,  and  nothing  can 
be  finer  than  a  clear  June  day  in  the  moun- 
tains. She  left  the  house  after  breakfast 
was  over.  Zacharias  accompanied  her  as 
far  as  the  stream;  maybe  that  was  why  she 
noticed  so  little  on  the  way.  After  she  parted 
from  him,  she  hurried  along  the  soft  path, 
looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left, 
probably  because  his  influence  was  still  upon 
her.  Her  mother  was  not  in  a  very  sympa- 
thetic mood;  Elizabeth  seemed  abstracted 
and  queer,  and  by  three  o'clock  relations  were 
so  strained  that  the  young  woman  started 
for  home  abruptly. 


380  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

"Everything  seemed  so  beautiful  on  the 
way  back.  It  took  quite  an  imagination  for 
this,  with  nothing  but  dead  trees,  charred 
logs  and  stumps,  mayweed  and  wild  ginger 
to  fill  the  dreary  waste.  When  she  reached 
the  stream  Zacharias  lay  asleep  under  a 
spreading  white  pine  that  had  somehow  es- 
caped the  fire;  she  hated  to  disturb  him.  A 
short  distance  away  in  the  brook  floated  his 
rod  and  line — it  would  have  drifted  off  with 
the  current  had  it  not  been  stopped  by  a  rot- 
ting log  which  lay  in  midstream.  As  she 
crossed  the  brook  she  caught  herself  repeat- 
ing 'his  eyes  are  gray,  his  lashes  are  not  quite 
black,  but  have  a  touch  of  color  to  them,  his 
eyebrows  are  chestnut  color,  his  hair  has 
more  red  than  chestnut  in  it." 

"She  felt  the  color  mounting  to  her  cheeks. 
What  if  Bamford  knew  she  could  be  so  silly 
— besides  she  could  never  be  anything  to  him ; 
she  was  a  married  woman.  He  liked  her  be- 
cause she  was  well  posted,  and  knew  the 
woods ;  that  was  all.  She  braced  herself  and 
began  whistling  something,  an  improvision 
between  a  Methodist  hymn  and  'Listen  to  the 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  381 

Mocking  Bird.'  'Isn't  it  fine,'  she  thought, 
'to  live  in  this  beautiful  world,  and  meet  peo- 
ple who  take  an  interest  in  you,  and  help  you 
to  make  it  more  beautiful.' 

"As  she  glanced  about  her,  something 
ruby-red  shone  out  conspicuously  from  an- 
other oasis,  so  dark  and  soggy  that  it  had 
escaped  the  fire.  She  looked  more  carefully 
— it  was  as  Thoreau  described  it,  like  'a  great 
dull  red  rose.'  She  pushed  aside  ferns  and 
some  low  bushes  and  peered  into  the  gloomy 
morass.  There  were  the  leaves,  'pitcher- 
shaped,  broadly  winged,  hooded,'  like  green 
bronze  urns.  All  these  supported,  and  were 
crowned  by  the  large,  distinctive  flowers, 
which  nodded  and  drooped  their  heads  as 
she  had  done  when  Irvin  Bamford  had  told 
her  she  had  made  his  stay  the  happiest  inci- 
dent of  his  life.  'Oh,  if  only  Irvin  were  here 
to  see  this,'  she  called  out  with  enthusiasm. 

"An  audible  murmur  swept  through  the 
trees ;  it  became  louder  as  it  grew  near ;  every 
tree,  living  and  dead,  took  up  the  refrain,  the 
chorus  of  her  happiness  in  the  June  breeze. 
As  she  started  ahead,  a  treefrog  took  up  his 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


thrilling  song  in  the  topmost  branches  of  an 
old  white-oak.  She  could  hear  him  a  long 
ways — the  reverberating  tones  of  'generro, 
generro,  generro,  err-err-err-generro,  gen- 
erro, generr-oh!'  As  the  strains  died  away 
she  came  upon  three  wood-robins  singing 
their  song,  which  sounded  like  the  ringing 
of  tiny,  tuneful  silver  bells,  with  never  a 
faltering  note  struck  by  the  feathered  bell- 
ringers. 

"As  she  neared  the  gate,  her  oldest  child, 
little  Dorothy,  who  had  been  sitting  on  the 
steps,  ran  towards  her.  'Oh,  mama,'  she 
shouted,  'there's  a  letter  inside  for  you.  Mr. 
Speary  was  to  the  post-office  and  brought  it 
with  him.' 

"Elizabeth's  heart  stood  still ;  she  dared  not 
hope  it  was  from  Bamford,  but  who  else 
could  be  writing  her?  She  pretended  to  be  un- 
concerned, and  walked  leisurely  into  the 
house.  On  the  dresser  lay  the  letter.  She 
had  seen  the  young  scientist  writing  reports ; 
it  was  his  handwriting.  'Mrs.  Elizabeth 
Noll.  My  dear  friend,'  it  began.  'If  all  goes 
well  I  will  arrive  at  Mr.  Speary's  place  early 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


Thursday  morning.  I  will  be  very  glad  to 
see  you  once  more.  I  have  thought  of  you 
very  often.  I  have  much  to  tell  you,  but  will 
wait  until  I  see  you.  Faithfully  yours,  I. 
Bamford.'  'He  must  like  me  a  lot/  she 
thought,  'else  why  should  he  write  me?  It 
wasn't  necessary.  Most  probably  he  wanted 
to  say  more  but  was  afraid.  Thursday  is 
tomorrow !' 

"Just  as  she  was  reading  it  for  the  sixth 
time  Zacharias  came  in  the  back  door  and 
confronted  her.  Consciously  she  stuffed  the 
letter  into  her  belt,  but  as  he  made  no  re- 
mark, she  offered  no  explanation.  When 
supper  was  over,  Zacharias  went  off  to  see  a 
neighbor  about  some  trout  flies,  and  left  his 
wife  sitting  on  the  front  steps.  The  sky 
was  a  rich  electric  blue,  and  over  the  un- 
couth silhouette  of  the  Meadows  the  first, 
fragile  phase  of  the  new  moon  was  rising. 
'Irvin  will  be  here  in  the  morning.  I  am  so 
glad;  what  can  I  do  to  show  my  happiness?' 
So  meditated  the  beautiful  Elizabeth.  And 
then  a  voice  within  her  spoke  aloud,  'Get 
him  that  wonderful  pitcher-plant/ 


384  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

"She  got  up,  and  going  indoors,  made  sure 
the  children  were  asleep.  Then  she  lit  a 
lantern  and  walked  to  the  gate,  and  out  along 
the  road  to  the  meadows.  Every  minute  or 
so  she  would  look  up  at  the  new  moon,  so  like 
the  fragile  figure  of  an  aerial  dancing  girl. 
Little  crickets  were  chirping  in  the  grass  be- 
side the  path.  From  the  woodlands  came 
that  clean,  cool  odor  of  the  summer  night, 
which  even  the  recent  fires  had  not  entirely 
destroyed.  She  knew  just  where  to  find  the 
pitcher-plant;  it  was  in  an  'oasis,'  and  the 
giant  white-oak  with  an  elbow  like  a  pugilist 
showing  off  his  muscle  was  an  additional 
landmark. 

"When  she  neared  the  spot  a  moonbeam 
was  resting  on  the  elbow  of  the  oak,  like  a 
spangled  scarf  thrown  across  a  balustrade. 
She  held  her  lantern  aloft,  but  she  scarcely 
needed  it.  the  night  was  so  bright.  The  plant 
grew  too  far  in  the  morass  to  reach  it  from 
where  she  stood  on  the  path,  so  she  stepped 
bravely  into  the  gloom.  All  went  well  for 
a  few  steps,  then  she  began  to  sink.  But  her 
purpose  being  a  high  one,  she  did  not  notice 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  385 

her  difficulties.  She  was  sunk  in  mud  up  to 
the  calves  of  her  pretty  legs  when  she  began 
prying  up  the  coveted  pitcher-plant  by  the 
roots.  It  seemed  hard  to  dislodge,  and  she 
was  sinking  deeper.  She  was  in  to  her  waist 
when  she  got  it  loose.  She  held  it  aloft,  and 
smiled,  and  the  moonbeam  zig-zagged  to  her, 
and  seemed  to  applaud  her  for  her  en- 
deavor. 

"  'What  a  surprise  it  will  be  for  Irvin.  I'll 
have  it  for  him  in  water,  roots  and  all,  when 
he  comes  in  after  breakfast  tomorrow.'  She 
was  admiring  the  plant,  and  stroking  the 
rich,  red,  moon-bathed  flowers,  in  an  ecstacy 
of  happiness,  when  she  felt  a  pressure  under 
her  arms.  She  looked  about  in  alarm;  she 
was  up  to  her  armpits  in  the  horrid  mud. 
It  had  closed  on  her  quickly,  imperceptibly. 

"She  tried  to  struggle,  but  it  only  made  a 
suction  below,  and  she  had  but  time  to  call 
out  'Irvin,  Irvin,  you  must  see  the  pitcher- 
plant!'  as  she  disappeared  from  sight. 
Zacharias  was  out  all  night,  and  in  the 
morning  came  to  the  house  about  the  same 
time  as  Irvin.  Both  missed  Elizabeth.  Zacha- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


rias  said,  'I  saw  her  reading  a  letter;  she 
looked  sheepish;  she's  run  away.' 

"Irvin  looked  at  him  angrily  and  said,  'She 
has  not  run  away ;  she  was  too  noble  a  woman 
for  that;  she's  met  with  some  accident,  or 
foul  play.'  Pretty  soon  Merrill  Speary  joined 
them.  'That  letter  was  post-marked  Ox-Bow ; 
I  wonder  who  she  knew  there?'  Both  men 
shook  their  heads.  Irvin  Bamford  knew,  but 
he  was  not  going  to  complicate  matters.  'She 
may  have  gotten  lost  in  the  Meadows,'  he 
suggested. 

"About  that  time  I  came  along,  and  the 
four  of  us  turned  into  the  path  leading  to 
the  one-time  jungle.  We  found  footprints, 
and  followed  them;  they  were  Elizabeth's 
sure  enough ;  they  led  to  the  great  white-oak 
with  the  elbow.  There  they  became  confused 
and  we  could  trace  them  no  longer.  Back  in 
the  morass  the  surface  had  an  unsteady  look. 
Bamford  became  suspicious  and  stamped  his 
foot  and  the  whole  quagmire  shook  for  fifty 
paces  in  every  direction.  'That  girl  is  buried 
in  the  quicksand,'  he  declared. 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  387 

"I  agreed  with  him,  but  Zacharias  and 
Speary  shook  their  heads.  'She's  gone  and 
met  someone  here  and  eloped,'  they  chorused. 
Bamford  and  I  went  back  for  shovels,  and 
tried  as  best  we  could  without  being  engulfed 
ourselves,  to  fathom  the  mystery  of  the  dark, 
deep  deposit.  We  returned  at  sunset  with- 
out a  clew,  except  that  on  the  surface  we 
found  an  uprooted  and  badly  wilted  pitcher- 
plant.  We  could  only  say  that  the  earth  had 
swallowed  her.  Most  of  the  natives  differed 
with  us,  and  still  insist  laconically  that  'Eliza- 
beth Noll  ran  off.' 

"Bamford  returned  to  Philadelphia,  where 
they  say  he  is  now  a  full-fledged  professor, 
but  whether  he  forgot  Elizabeth  in  his  work, 
or  his  work  was  successful  because  of  her, 
he  will  have  to  tell  you  himself. 

"Very  often  when  I  cross  the  Meadows  on 
the  first  night  of  a  new  moon,  I  see  a  moon- 
beam playing  through  the  elbow  of  the  old 
white-oak.  It  does  seem  strange  it  should 
always  be  in  the  one  place,  and  if  you  look  at 
it  long  enough  you  will  see  it  has  not  the  con- 
tour of  a  moonray,  but  resembles  a  slender. 


388  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

girlish  form.  I  have  seen  its  eyes  looking 
at  me,  but  I  am  not  afraid,  as  I  know  it  is 
Elizabeth,  hoping  doubtless  to  send  a  mes- 
sage to  her  lover.  I  have  waited  and  I  have 
watched,  but  never  a  word  has  she  spoken 
thus  far.  And  what  few  folks  that  are  left 
about  the  Meadows,  tell  the  same  story — 
but." 

At  this  moment  the  heavy-set  brakeman 
threw  open  the  car  door  and  shouted,  "Fair 
Grounds,  Fair  Grounds,  all  out  for  the  Fair 
Grounds!"  There  was  a  scramble  and  a 
shuffle,  and  I  lost  sight  of  my  interesting 
companion  in  the  rush.  Late  in  the  after- 
noon, when  I  was  saddling  my  horse,  Lew 
Hutt,  for  the  final  heat  of  the  running  race, 
I  saw  him  for  a  minute  near  the  stables. 
"Come  to  see  me,  friend ;  you  know  where  to 
find  me,"  he  called,  cheerily,  and  this  I  must 
do  soon,  for  three  years  have  elapsed,  and 
learn  if  the  shadow  of  Elizabeth  has  broken 
its  silence. 


XXVI. 
MEETING  HERMIONIE 


URING  my  long  illness,  I 
dreamed  oftener  than  usual 
but  always  about  Hermi- 
onie.  Sometimes  my  eyes 
would  be  filled  with  tears 
when  I  awoke,  so  vivid 
were  the  impressions  of  re- 
newed association  with  one 
who  had  meant  so  much  to 
me  ten  years  ago. 

When  in  good  health,  I  dreamed  very  sel- 
dom, but  these  occasional  dreams  seemed  so 
realistic  that  had  Hermionie  lived  in  the  same 
house  with  me  I  could  not  have  seen  her  more 
distinctly.  Why  she  was  the  sole  object  of 
my  dreams,  when  my  life  was  filled  with 
changing  and  strange  incidents,  remained  a 
mystery  with  me.  Her  image  had  literally 
"camped  out"  in  my  soul,  I  thought,  and, 
while  there,  no  other  impressions  could 
crystallize. 


390  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

To  amuse  myself  in  the  tedious  hours  while 
I  lay  on  my  bed  of  sickness,  I  imagined  she 
would  come  in  the  door  and  visit  me ;  I  would 
select  an  hour  when  a  train  arrived  from  the 
direction  of  her  home,  and  then  wait  ex- 
pectantly for  her  appearance.  But  the  "ex- 
pected unexpected"  never  comes  true,  and 
after  weeks  of  waiting  I  was  doomed  to  dis- 
appointment. It  was  silly  to  have  felt  that 
way,  as  I  did  not  know  she  was  aware  of  my 
illness,  and  even  so,  she  was  happily  married 
and  would  have  other  things  to  do  than  to 
travel  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  to  see  a 
former  lover. 

As  I  began  to  improve  my  dreams  grew 
less  frequent,  which  was  a  great  relief  to  me, 
as  they  filled  me  with  sadness,  and  awoke 
memories  that  best  belonged  in  the  dead  and 
buried  past.  I  was  even  ceasing  to  watch 
the  door  for  her  coming — I  was  so  nearly 
well,  that  I  laughed  to  myself  at  the  way  I 
had  spent  so  many  hours  imagining  her  com- 
ing, how  she  would  look,  and  what  she  would 
say.  Then  one  night  I  dreamed  of  her  in 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


such  a  way  that  I  was  loath  to  believe  it  had 
been  a  dream. 

I  had  fallen  asleep  early  that  night,  look- 
ing, as  was  my  wont,  at  the  reflection  of  the 
lamp-light  on  the  ceiling,  which  seemed  to 
have  in  its  shadowy  outlines  the  features  of 
Hermionie's  face.  Therefore,  my  last  con- 
scious thoughts  being  of  her,  I  should  have 
been  satisfied  it  was  only  a  dream,  but  still 
I  hated  to  allow  myself  to  be  convinced.  If 
it  was  a  dream,  then  I  must  have  been  sleep- 
ing when  the  door  opened,  and,  instinctively, 
as  if  awake,  I  rose  up  on  my  pillow. 

By  the  yellow  lamp-glow  I  saw  standing 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed  the  familiar  outlines 
of  Hermionie.  She  looked  just  as  she  did 
when  I  saw  her  last,  four  years  before,  and 
when  our  eyes  met,  she  nodded  and  smiled. 
In  my  other  dreams  of  her,  while  we  had 
carried  on  conversations,  yet  I  could  not  be 
sure  that  I  actually  heard  the  tones  of 
her  voice.  But  this  time  I  surely  did — she 
had  an  intonation  different  from  any  per- 
son I  ever  met — and  this  night  she  spoke 


392  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

clearly  and  with  every  little  mannerism  I 
used  to  know  so  well. 

"Herndon,"  she  said,  "I  am  sorry  you've 
been  so  sick,  but  you  will  soon  be  ever  so 
much  better.  I  have  come  a  great  many 
times  to  see  you ;  it  has  been  an  awful  effort 
to  do  so  and  always  leaves  me  ill  the  next  day. 
I  cannot  come  to  see  you  this  way  again  for 
a  long  time,  but  in  the  course  of  a  month  yon 
are  going  to  take  a  journey  into  the  western 
part  of  the  state.  I  will  meet  you  at  the 
station  at  Hydesburg;  we  both  change  cars 
there;  we  will  be  together  for  four  hours, 
and  it  will  do  us  both  more  good  than  to  meet 
as  unfettered  spirits  in  the  world  of  sleep." 

I  told  her  I  should  be  delighted  to  take  the 
journey  and  asked  for  further  particulars. 
"Your  train  will  reach  Hydesburg  at  8.00 
o'clock  on  the  morning  of  February  4th,  and 
I  will  arrive  there  ten  minutes  earlier.  At 
noon  your  train  leaves,  and  I  take  one  for 
the  east  at  12.09.  It  will  be  impossible  for 
you  to  disappoint  me.  Destiny,  which  never 
explains  its  reasons,  has  so  ordered  it,  and, 
although  there  will  be  apparently  no  outcome 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  393 

to  our  meeting,  it  will  be  to  the  great  spir- 
itual benefit  of  us  both." 

I  remember  that  whether  it  was  all  a 
dream  or  not  I  wanted  more  evidence,  and 
asked  her  to  come  nearer,  which  she  did.  1 
reached  up  and  caught  her  in  my  arms  and 
kissed  her  long  and  lovingly  on  those  thin, 
curved  lips,  which  had  seemed  so  inscrut- 
able, so  mocking,  so  adorable,  in  the  days 
gone  by.  I  held  her  hand — it  felt  like  flesh 
and  blood ;  it  was  not  the  hand  of  the  ghosts 
or  disembodied  shades  we  read  about. 

If  I  was  asleep  when  she  came  in,  and  in 
the  course  of  our  conversation,  I  surely  was 
wide  awake  now.  I  was  sitting  up  in  bed, 
noticing  every  detail  of  the  room,  so  as  to 
make  sure  I  was  not  dreaming.  Still,  when 
daylight  appeared,  I  knew  there  had  been  no 
actual  visitor,  my  senses  were  too  normal  for 
that,  but  still  I  had  the  haunting  knowledge 
that  the  spiritual  essence  of  Hermionie  had 
been  with  me.  I  had  not  forgotten  the  feel- 
ing of  contentment  and  happiness  that  pos- 
sessed me  for  hours  after  having  visited  her, 
no  matter  for  how  short  a  time,  in  the  past. 


394  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

I  felt  exactly  the  same  now.  It  was  the  spir- 
itual being  that  had  exhilarated  me  before; 
it  was  that  essence  in  purer  form  that  created 
the  sensation  now. 

I  determined  to  take  the  trip  if  able,  on 
February  4th.  It  worked  in  very  nicely  with 
a  necessary  business  trip,  but  I  kept  inces- 
santly wondering  whether  Hermionie  had 
the  power  to  compel  her  spirit  to  visit  me, 
or  whether  she  was  in  ignorance  of  these 
seances.  I  was  sure  she  was  a  devoted  wife, 
hence  concluded  she  knew  nothing  of  it. 

The  dream,  or  whatever  it  was,  soon  came 
true  in  one  particular.  From  the  night  she 
told  me  of  our  proposed  meeting,  until  I 
started  on  the  trip,  my  sleep  was  absolutely 
dreamless.  As  time  rolled  on  I  became  more 
matter  of  fact ;  I  figured  out  there  was  about 
one  chance  in  a  million  in  the  big  state  of 
Pennsylvania  that  I  could  meet  her  on  a  cer- 
tain date,  at  a  certain  hour,  in  such  an  out 
of  the  way  place  as  Hydesburg.  It  seemed 
preposterous  for  me  to  contemplate  such  an 
excursion,  but  I  was  urged  on  by  an  impulse 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


within  me  that  was  stronger  than  I  could 
resist. 

Rather  than  put  myself  down  as  supersti- 
tious or  credulous,  I  ascribed  my  love  of  the 
picturesque  and  the  unusual  as  the  motive 
for  this  odd  pilgrimage.  From  the  begin- 
ning I  had  always  associated  Hermionie  with 
railway  trains.  I  met  her  on  one  bound  for 
Pittsburg  on  a  visit,  and  the  last  time  I  had 
seen  her,  a  couple  of  years  after  our  love 
story  had  ended,  was  also  on  a  train  headed 
for  the  Smoky  City,  and  exactly  six  years  to 
the  day  from  the  date  when  we  first  met. 
"Life  is  a  circle,"  I  remarked  at  the  time — 
but  were  I  saying  it  now  would  be  quoting 
the  words  of  Richard  Le  Galienne,  who  said, 
"If  we  push  far  enough  into  the  future  we 
are  sure  to  encounter  the  past." 

But  that  was  the  last  time  I  had  actually 
seen  her,  granting  that  my  night-time  ex- 
periences were  purely  dreamland  phantasms. 
In  daytime  I  was  busy,  and  seldom  thought 
of  her;  at  night  I  had  other  friends,  and  were 
it  not  for  my  dreams  could  have  classed  her 
as  a  person  who  had  completely  dropped  out 


396  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

of  my  life.  And  why  not?  She  was  married, 
had  doubtless  forgotten  me,  and  I  was  liv- 
ing by  that  rule  of  George  Moore's,  "The 
past  must  be  treated  as  dead  flesh ;  we  must 
cut  ourselves  off  from  it  that  we  may  live." 

I  seemed  to  improve  rapidly  after  my  noc- 
turnal visitation,  and  when  the  weeks  rolled 
around,  and  it  was  time  to  depart  on  my  very 
prosaic  business — and  very  bizarre  pleasure 
trip — I  was  feeling  almost  as  well  as  had 
been  before  I  was  stricken.  Before  start- 
ing I  was  determined  to  test  my  luck,  that  is, 
do  some  audacious  thing,  and  if  it  turned  out 
in  my  favor,  it  would  show  that  fortune  fav- 
ored me.  Everything  I  tried  for  several  days 
turned  out  satisfactorily,  and  I  could  not  but 
feel  that  I  was  going  to  meet  Hermionie, 
even  though  I  had  a  percentage  of  a  million 
chances  to  one  against. 

I  was  living  in  the  outskirts  of  Reading  at 
the  time,  and  on  the  appointed  day  ordered 
a  cab  to  take  me  to  the  station.  The  time  ar- 
rived for  the  cab  to  put  in  an  appearance,  but 
it  was  not  to  be  seen.  I  telephoned  to  the 
barn,  but  was  told  it  had  started.  By  that 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  397 

time  it  looked  as  if  I  would  miss  the  train, 
so  lugging  my  heavy  suit-case  I  started  on 
foot  for  the  nearest  trolley  car,  nearly  half 
a  mile  away.  Just  as  I  reached  the  tracks 
I  met  the  cab ;  the  driver  said  he  had  gone  to 
a  wrong  address,  and  as  I  saw  no  car  in  sight, 
started  for  the  station  in  the  slow-going  con- 
veyance. 

The  driver,  who  was  a  good  fellow,  did  his 
best,  but  the  roads  were  rough  and  piled  with 
snow,  and  the  result  was  that  we  saw  the 
train  pulling  out  for  Harrisburg  as  we  drove 
up  the  steep  hill  to  the  depot.  This  looked 
as  if  my  trip,  at  least  the  personal  side  of  it, 
was  to  be  a  failure,  but  as,  on  account  of 
business  matters,  I  had  to  go  in  that  direc- 
tion anyway,  I  boarded  the  next  train,  which 
started  several  hours  later.  Just  as  I  ex- 
pected, I  missed  connections  at  Harrisburg, 
and  had  to  lie  over  until  the  next  morning. 

At  eight  o'clock,  the  hour  when  I  expected 
to  be  meeting  Hermionie  at  Hydesburg,  I 
was  travelling  through  the  narrows  near 
Lewistown  on  a  local.  It  was  unfortunate 
to  devote  so  much  time  to  chasing  a  phan- 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


torn,  and  I  laughed  to  myself  for  imagining 
that  such  a  thing  as  meeting  her  could  ever 
have  happened.  The  "luck"  that  I  had  tried 
out  a  few  days  before  was  evidently  a  "sweet- 
ener" from  the  hand  of  Destiny,  to  compen- 
sate me  for  disappointments  ahead.  I  had 
been  treated  that  way  before,  and  why  should 
I  have  thought  it  could  be  different  this  time  ? 

I  had  two  changes  of  cars,  and  the  conse- 
quent delays,  before  I  reached  Hydesburg. 
I  was  feeling  pretty  impatient,  and,  try  as  I 
might,  could  not  interest  myself  in  the  bleak 
landscape,  with  the  snow-covered  fields,  and 
the  farm  houses  seemingly  buried  in  the 
drifts.  On  the  ponds  the  skaters  looked  like 
black  flies  on  the  icing  of  cakes.  Even  the 
mountains  had  a  forbidding  look,  and  never, 
it  appeared  to  me,  did  the  trees  seem  so  black, 
and  dead  and  listless.  The  car  smelt  strongly 
of  mint  candy  and  sugar  cookies,  as  it  was 
filled  with  mothers  and  children,  but  even 
these  did  not  appeal  to  me  today. 

I  scarcely  took  notice  as  the  train  crept 
around  the  horseshoe  curve,  where  twenty 
carloads  of  animals  and  circus  performers 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 


had  gone  to  their  death  some  seventeen  years 
back.  Even  when  the  train  stopped  at  Sandy 
Ridge,  where  I  had  seen  a  pretty  blonde  girl 
get  out,  the  first  time  I  had  travelled  on  the 
T.  &  C.,  I  evinced  no  interest;  all  I  could 
think  of  was  my  little  romance  of  Destiny. 

The  afternoon  train  was  late  on  account  of 
the  storms,  and  it  was  5  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon instead  of  8  o'clock  in  the  morning 
when  I  found  myself  alone  on  the  station 
platform  at  Hydesburg.  I  looked  at  the  som- 
bre drab-colored  building,  with  the  telegra- 
pher working  inside  the  screened  window, 
the  snow  drifts  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
track,  the  lifeless  trees,  the  mountainous 
landscape  almost  the  color  of  the  approach- 
ing dusk.  I  was  at  Hydesburg,  with  over 
four  hours  to  wait,  and  no  signs  of  Hermi- 
onie. 

Then,  out  of  curiosity,  I  opened  the  door  of 
the  ladies'  waiting  room.  In  a  dark  corner, 
back  of  the  huge  whitewashed  stove,  sat  a 
woman — it  was  Hermionie.  She  got  up 
quickly  and  came  towards  me;  we  shook 
hands  as  if  everything  had  been  prearranged, 


400  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

and  I  took  pains  to  notice  that  there  was  no 
trace  of  surprise  in  her  voice.  She  looked 
just  as  she  had  when  I  saw  her  last,  only  the 
new  style  of  tight-fitting  skirts  seemed  to 
harmonize  more  completely  with  the  long, 
slim  lines  of  her  erect  figure  than  anything 
she  wore  in  the  old  days.  She  had  on  a  three- 
cornered  dark  blue  velvet  hat,  over  which  a 
net  veil  was  thrown,  and  her  long  coat  and 
gown  were  of  dark  material.  Her  eyes  were 
as  preternaturally  black  as  of  yore,  as  was 
her  hair,  which  was  drawn  tightly  back  and 
tied  in  a  small  knot  at  her  neck.  The  arched 
nose  which  turned  up  just  a  trifle  at  the  end, 
and  the  thin,  never  motionless  lips,  and  the 
clear  pale  complexion,  all  brought  back  a  re- 
vulsion of  feeling  that  was  hard  for  me  to 
disguise. 

While  the  first  greeting  was  devoid  of  any 
surprise,  I  gradually  began  to  realize  the 
strangeness  of  the  situation.  "How  did  you 
happen  here?"  I  made  bold  to  ask.  "I'm  on 
my  way  to  visit  my  sister-in-law  in  Milroy, 
but  my  train  is  late.  I  don't  know  what  the 
trouble  is,  and  I  got  stranded  here.  I  was 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  401 

going  on  the  early  train  this  morning,  but  I 
found  I  would  have  to  lie  over  here  for  sev- 
eral hours,  and  I  didn't  like  the  thought  of 
that,  so  I  came  by  the  later  train  with  no 
better  results." 

I  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  "Why,  I 
was  coming  here  on  the  early  morning  train 
from  Tyrone  it  was  due  here  about  8  o'clock, 
but  I  missed  my  train  in  Reading  last  even- 
ing, which  held  me  back  half  a  day." 

"Where  are  you  going,  Herndon?"  she 
asked;  "I  know  you  are  great  at  travelling, 
but  isn't  this  a  trifle  out  of  your  line?" 

I  saw  that  the  time  had  come  to  reveal  the 
whole  story.  We  went  out  on  the  platform 
and  began  walking  up  and  down.  "I  had 
some  business  in  Clearfield,"  I  began,  "but, 
of  course,  I  could  have  gotten  there  direct 
from  Reading  by  the  P.  &  R.  and  the  Beech 
Creek,  but  I  came  this  way  to  meet  you." 

"Well,"  said  Hermionie,  with  one  of  her 
old-time  perplexing  smiles,  "that  wasn't  why 
I  stayed  over  until  the  later  train.  I  had  a 
dream  that  I  would  meet  you  here  at  8  o'clock 
this  morning,  and,  as  I  am  happy  with  Jim,  I 


402  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

saw  no  reason  of  doing  so.  I  was  j  ust  super- 
stitious enough  to  fear  you  would  be  here,  so 
I  waited  over  a  train,  but  you  found  me  any- 
how." 

"Well,  Hermionie,"  I  said,  "it  is  foolish  for 
us  to  meet,  but  I  had  a  dream  telling  me  I 
would  meet  you  here  at  8  o'clock  this  morn- 
ing, and  even  though  I  came  this  way,  I  sort 
of  felt  relieved  that  I  would  not  see  you  be- 
cause I  got  here  so  many  hours  late." 

"Do  you  often  dream  about  me?"  she  in- 
quired. 

"Generally  speaking,  no,  but  I  have  been 
sick  lately,  and  I  dreamed  a  good  deal."  Then 
I  went  on  to  tell  her  about  the  vision  I  had 
had  which  led  to  this  singular  adventure. 

"It's  been  the  same  with  me,"  said  Hermi- 
onie; "ever  since  I  have  been  married,  I've 
dreamed  about  you  ;  that  I  took  long  journeys 
to  see  you.  I  hated  to  do  it,  as  I  did  not  want 
even  my  soul  to  be  untrue  to  Jim.  I  always 
felt  wretchedly  tired  the  next  morning,  but 
how  can  we  make  ourselves  stop  dreaming, 
and  I  disliked  consulting  medical  advice  or 
even  telling  my  husband.  Of  late  I  dreamed 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  403 

often  you  were  ill.  Over  a  month  ago  I  had 
a  most  peculiar  dream;  I  should  say  it  was 
more  of  a  vision.  In  it  I  seemed  to  be  fully 
awake,  which  was  a  new  sensation,  and  to 
get  out  of  bed  and  dress  and  climb  out 
through  the  window.  There  a  gust  of  wind 
caught  me,  and  I  was  wafted,  as  easily  as  if 
in  an  airship,  over  the  treetops,  mountains 
and  clouds,  close  by  the  full  moon — " 

Here  I  interrupted  her.  "It  must  have 
been  the  same  night  I  dreamed  you  came  to 
me,  which  caused  this  trip;  it  was  the  first 
night  of  the  full  moon  in  December." 

"Well,"  she  continued;  "I  alighted  on  a 
little  portico  in  front  of  an  open  window, 
and  had  not  the  will  power  to  resist  going  in. 
There  I  found  you  lying  in  bed,  but  not 
asleep,  and  by  the  light  of  a  lamp  on  the  cen- 
tre table  I  saw  that  you  were  looking  badly, 
but  better  than  I  expected.  In  the  course  of 
our  conversation  I  told  you  that  I  expected  to 
be  at  Hydesburg  on  the  morning  of  February 
4,  and  would  meet  you  there.  That  is  all  I 
remember.  Then  I  left  you,  and  at  daybreak 
Jim  found  me  sitting  on  the  side  of  the  bed 


404  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories 

fully  dressed.  We  concluded  that  I  had  been 
having  a  nightmare  and  especially  as  I  had  a 
terrible  headache.  Jim  worried  for  days 
about  it.  But  secretly  I  was  more  concerned 
than  he ;  I  knew  that  my  experience  had  been 
a  most  peculiar  one,  and  I  wondered  if,  in 
reality,  you  were  ill.  You  meant  nothing  to 
me,  yet  for  old  time's  sake,  I  felt  sorry  if  any- 
thing was  wrong.  I  inquired  around,  but  no 
one  had  heard  anything  of  you,  not  even  the 
druggist's  clerk,  who  said  he  used  to  go  hunt- 
ing with  you.  I  did  not  write,  as  I  might  find 
that  you  were  'never  in  better  health,'  as  the 
story  goes,  and  you  would  think  I  was  trying 
to  reopen  our  old  romance.  Of  course,  I 
ought  not  to  have  come  to  Hydesburg  today ; 
that  would  have  been  the  simplest  way  to  end 
the  incident;  but  everyone,  men  as  well  as 
women,  are  a  trifle  curious,  and  I  wanted  to 
see  what  would  happen.  You  can  put  your 
own  construction  on  it." 

Just  as  she  finished  her  story  I  peered  in 
at  the  telegrapher  plugging  away  behind  the 
grated  window.  He  was  looking  in  wonder- 
ment at  us  walking  up  and  down  the  platform 


Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories  405 

in  the  cold  night  air.  After  verifying  the 
time  of  the  departure  of  our  trains  we  went 
to  the  Eagle  hotel,  back  to  the  station,  and 
had  supper.  Then  we  sat  the  rest  of  the 
evening  by  the  stove  in  the  hotel  parlor,  talk- 
ing over  old  times,  and  the  stubborn  Destiny 
that  decreed  we  should  meet  this  day.  At 
nine-thirty,  when  I  saw  her  on  the  south- 
bound train,  it  was  all  as  much  of  a  mystery 
to  us  as  ever.  Perhaps  I  am  happier  at  delv- 
ing back  into  the  past  and  seeing  her  again ; 
perhaps  she  is ;  yet  neither  of  us  would  con- 
fess that  in  the  intervening  years  we  had  re- 
pined much  for  each  other's  presence.  But 
since  then  I  have  ceased  dreaming  of  Hermi- 
onie. 


CONTENTS 


Explanatory  Preface 5 

Chapter  I     When  the  Pigeons  Fly 17 

Chapter          II     The  Last  Elk 31 

Chapter         HI     The  Passing  of  a  Ghost 44 

Chapter        IV    The  Story  of  Lewis's  Lake 62 

Chapter         V     The  Last  Pack 75 

Chapter        VI     Story  of  the  Sulphur  Spring 84 

Chapter       VII     The  Panther  Hide % 

Chapter      VIII     Marsh  Marigold 113 

Chapter        IX    Story  of  the  Picture  Rocks 131 

Chapter         X  Vindication  of  Frederick  Stump    .   .    .145 

Chapter        XI     The  Cross  on  the  Rock 158 

Chapter       XII     The  Fate  of  Georgie  Dupre 174 

Chapter     XIII     Billy  Anderson's  Ghost 185 

Chapter     XIV     The  Dreamer 202 

Chapter      XV    The  Call  of  the  Track 218 

Chapter     XVI     The  Ghost  of  the  Pine 240 

Chapter    XVII     A  Pennsylvania  Bison  Hunt 254 

Chapter  XVIII     McElhattan  and  His  Springs 268 

Chapter    XIX    The  Courage  of  Peter  Pentz 284 

Chapter      XX    Tim  Murphy's  Ghost 295 

Chapter     XXI     The  Last  Drive 310 

Chapter   XXII  History  of  Tamarack  Swamp     ....  323 

Chapter  XXIII  Cora  Pemberton's  Biography      ....  339 

Chapter  XXIV    The  Vista 357 

Chapter  XXV     The  Pitcher  Plant 369 

Chapter  XXVI     Meeting  Hermionie 389 


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